The Black Room: Door Eight
Page 5
“Mmm.” I want to tell him it’s okay, but I can’t.
I’m scared, but the fear is deep down, under the layer of shadows skirling inside my head. Or maybe the fear is the shadows. Or above them. I don’t know. I just don’t want Conrad to be afraid.
“I’m taking you in. You could die if it gets any higher. Brain damage, comas, seizures, all sorts of shit can happen when it goes this high.”
He vanishes, and then he returns and I feel him scoop me up. I’m wrapped in something piercingly hot or cold that envelops my whole body. I fight to open my eyes, and it takes every last shred of energy I have to squint through my eyelashes.
“Cold.”
“I know, baby.” His voice is tight, hard. “It’s a wet towel I put in the freezer. We’ve gotta try to get your core temp down on the way to the hospital.” He kisses my forehead, and I feel his lips tremble. “You’ll be okay. They’ll help you at the hospital.”
The pain and the nausea and the exhaustion are too much for me to protest the hospital.
He lifts me in his arms and carries me. I’m laid down on what feels like the leather bench seat of a vehicle. The towel is laid over me, and it’s at once icy cold and scorching hot. A wave of pain sears through me, but this is pain like I’ve never felt before, not just intensely, viciously, blindingly painful, but…different.
It feels decentralized, a throbbing agony in my entire head, as if my skull is going to explode. This sensation is quickly followed by a sudden spear of nausea hitting so fast I don’t have time to do anything but heave, gag, and puke again. I’m on my side, and I feel it trickle down my cheek and pool on the leather under my face. I hear Conrad cursing, feel him wipe the vomit away, and then the door closes at my feet. The driver’s door opens and then I hear the tires squeal. I’m aware of movement that pushes and pulls at me. Bumps in the road send agony lancing through my head.
I vomit again, but there’s nothing to bring up but burning strings of bitter bile.
Darkness grips me.
I fight it, but it’s futile.
Sensations wash over me, too far away and foreign and sludgy, they don’t even seem to be happening to me.
Voices.
“—Just suddenly started getting sicker—”
“Can you tell me what her symptoms are?”
“—Seems like meningitis to me …”
“…Possibly fatal but…tests to be sure—”
—
“—have to put her in a coma to protect her brain, to reduce the swelling.”
“Will she come out of it?” This is not Conrad’s voice. Is it Charlie?
“It’s impossible to say at this juncture, sir. If she does, there is a distinct possibility that she could be in a vegetative state. She could also make a full recovery, or she could suffer any number of various disabilities. This is a very complicated and dangerous disease, Mr. Markham. Her…um—Mr. Killian undoubtedly saved her life by getting her here as quickly as he did, but she has a long road ahead of her.”
“How—how long will she be in the coma?”
“Hard to say, unfortunately. A few days, possibly more.”
“It doesn’t seem like you know very much at all, if you ask me.” This is Conrad.
I know his voice—it’s inside me, part of me. I yearn for him, strain for him.
“As I said, sir, this is a very tricky illness to deal with. It hits hard, it hits fast, and it disguises itself as the flu until it’s nearly too late. We’re doing all we can to help her, I assure you.”
“Why are you even still here, anyway?” Charlie’s voice, harsh and angry.
“Because I saved her life, and because she’d want me here?”
“Yeah, well, I’m still her husband, asshole. The fact that you got her here is the only reason you’re still here at all, so keep your goddamn mouth shut or I’ll have security make you leave.”
I hate hearing them talk to each other like that. Hate the anger. Hate Charlie’s pain. Hate that he found out about Conrad this way.
—
dark
cold
a swelling thickening susurrus of white noise,
which resolves through a stifling impossible floating eon into something—something—
a sound, a quaver of sensation—
BEEP…BEEP…BEEP…BEEP…
crackling, a squeak, a cough, a muffled voice somewhere above me— “Doctor Reed to the ER, Doctor Reed to the ER please...”
movement, the dark cold thick burying cavern of shadows that is
I
being rolled to one side, something cool and wet sliding along something that has no name, that isn’t attached to anything, disconnected sensation, disorientation, movement to the other direction, more wet cool sliding,
BEEP…BEEP…
“BEEP…BEEP…”
…BEEP…BEEP…
“BEEP…BEEP…”
—
“…That you face reality, Mr. Markham. She may not ever wake up. The fever may have damaged her brain. Scans show that she may also have suffered a seizure while Mr. Killian was en route with her. He wouldn’t have and couldn’t have noticed, not if she was already unconscious and he was driving. I know the situation is…uncomfortable, but I feel it is my duty to report the truth of the facts so no one is held accountable for something unpreventable.”
“So what are you saying?” Charlie, his voice slow, dark, rough. “About Hannah, I mean.”
A long, exhausted sigh. “Just that you need to begin thinking about a DNR.”
“A what?”
“A ‘do not resuscitate’ order.”
“Like, if she’s dying, just let her die?”
“It’s been over a week, Mr. Markham. We’ve weaned her off the medication which put her into the medical coma, so she should have woken up by now.” Another of those sighs, which communicates somehow a soul-deep pain, a mortal exhaustion from having to say this. “There’s simply no way to know if she’ll ever wake up, if she can survive on her own without the ventilator. This could be the way she’ll be, kept alive by machines, constantly rolled and washed to prevent bedsores, fed through tubes…it’s no kind of life, Mr. Markham. It is entirely your decision, however; I’m merely giving you the facts.”
No.
No.
NO.
I’m here.
I’M HERE!
I can hear you, Charlie. I hear the doctor. Don’t, don’t.
I don’t want to die.
I don’t want to die.
But I exist only as the ability to hear. I can’t blink, can’t wiggle fingers—don’t even have fingers to wiggle—can’t rage, can’t protest…
I’m trapped.
“I’ll leave you to think over your options, Mr. Markham. And…I’m sorry. I promise you, we’ve done everything we possibly can, but sometimes these things are simply out of our hands.”
“Thanks, Doctor.”
Shoes squeaking, the sound fading.
Silence, except for the beeping of the heart monitor.
I hear Charlie breathing, then.
“Hannah, god, I’m—I’m so fucking sorry, Hannah. I just—I wish—fuck. FUCK!” The last word is shouted, suddenly loud, and full of anger and agony. “I hate this, Hannah. I hate everything about this. What am I supposed to do? What do I do, Hannah? Keep you alive on fucking machines? Let you just—die?”
He sobs, then, a raw, ragged, broken sound.
“Goddammit…goddammit.” The last three syllables are spoken so low, so soft, with such palpable agony that they’re nearly inaudible, nearly unrecognizable as human speech.
Oh Charlie, Charlie. Don’t. Please don’t.
Silence again, then, except the monitor beeping and Charlie sobbing.
I hear him moving, more silence, and then a female voice.
“Yes, Mr. Markham?”
“I need to talk to Doctor Abernathy.”
“I’ll get him for you, sir.”
“Thanks.”
“Of course.”
More silence, and now Charlie isn’t sobbing anymore, but I hear him sigh every now and again.
The other male voice from before, the Doctor. “How can I help you, Mr. Markham?”
“I…I don’t think she’d want to be like this. To…just sort of…exist.”
“You want a DNR, then?”
“Yeah.”
A brief silence. “I—ah…perhaps I’m speaking out of turn here, but…I wonder if you should offer Mr. Killian a chance to voice his opinion? The legal right to choose for your wife resides with you, of course, but…it was quite clear to me that Mr. Killian cares very deeply for her.”
“He doesn’t get a goddamn vote.”
“I think he might disagree. This is, obviously, a painful and difficult situation to navigate, and…the decision you’re making, sir, it’s…it’s very—well, it’s final. There’s no going back. You have to try to think what she’d want, more than what you want for her.”
“She’s a goddamn vegetable!”
“I never said that was one hundred percent the case, Mr. Markham. Just that we have to be ready for that eventuality, as tragic as it would be.” Another pause. “I would like to encourage you to consider all aspects of this. She could pull through—it’s happened before. It’s just that the longer she remains unconscious, the less likely a full recovery becomes. The decision may lie with you and you alone, but the consequences and effects of that decision are not limited to you.”
Charlie groans, and I can almost picture him clutching his hair and tugging on it as he does when he’s deeply upset. “I’ll talk to—to Killian.”
“I truly do feel that would be wise.”
“Did he say when he’d be back?”
“I believe the nurse said he just went down to the cafeteria.”
“Thanks.”
“Whatever I can do to help, Mr. Markham.”
Silence, long and profound.
I feel the darkness swallowing me, pulling me under. I fight it. Fight to remain where it’s a little lighter, where there is sound and reality that makes sense, even if it hurts.
But I’m powerless.
Helpless.
—
Conrad’s voice is a fishhook, lancing into me and jagging deep and pulling me upward, out of the deep cold impenetrable blackness and into lesser darkness where I’m able to hear—and only hear.
“What are her chances?” His voice is careful, quiet, but I hear the pain he’s masking. He can’t hide it from me, even when I’m like this.
“Only that the longer she’s under, the less likely it becomes that she’ll ever wake up and, if she does, she could be a vegetable. Basically no more alive than she is now.” Charlie is reluctant, resentful.
“But she could make it?”
“He said others have.”
“And…what—um. What are you thinking?”
“I can’t stand seeing her like this, a shell of herself. It’s not…life. It’s just existence. How long can I sit here, waiting, hoping she’ll just…miraculously wake up? What if she never does? Or what if she wakes up, but she’s just a—a fucking potato?”
“Forever.” Conrad’s voice is low, and I think Charlie almost missed it.
“What?” Quick anger. “What’d you say?”
Conrad repeats himself, but louder. “Forever. I said fucking forever, Charlie. That’s how long I’d sit here waiting. That’s how long I’d hope.”
“She’s not in there, man.”
A sudden scrape of chair legs. “Yes—she—fucking—is!” The words are punctuated by scuffling, and then a loud thump.
“Leh—leggo.” Charlie’s words are garbled. “You’re choking me—” this, again, is mangled, as if he can barely get the sounds past a throat caught in a vice-grip.
Shoes on tile, a hard female voice. “Let him go, Mr. Killian, or I’ll call security. Let him go NOW.”
A pause, and then Charlie gasps raggedly. “It’s fine…I’m fine.”
Another silence. “She’s in there. I feel her. I can’t explain it, but I feel her.” Conrad is close to me, so close I can almost feel him. “You can’t give up on her, Charlie. You—you can’t.” Conrad, strong, powerful, fierce, vibrant Conrad…his voice breaks on the last word.
And my heart breaks with him.
Because I am here.
“God…dammit,” Charlie’s voice grates. “You gonna pay the hospital bills, Killian?”
“Yes.” This is quiet, calm. “I’ll take care of her, take care of everything. You don’t have to ever come back here, if you don’t want to.”
“Hey, man, don’t make it seem like I don’t care—”
“I’m not. I’m just…saying. I’m not leaving her side. Not until her heart stops beating. Whether she’s a fucking vegetable or not, I’ll never leave her side.”
Conrad, Conrad, Conrad…
The pain I feel, the emotional agony, the searing turmoil, the grief, the longing…it’s too much. Too fucking much. It hurts, it hurts, it hurts.
Don’t leave me, Conrad. Don’t give up on me.
I’m here.
I’m here.
—
I—
I can’t let him hurt anymore.
I can’t stay here.
I can’t stay in this darkness anymore.
I have to—
I—
I have to wake up.
I have to wake up.
Darkness tries to pull at me, and I fight it, fight it.
Cold seizes me, and I fight it.
The shadows pluck and pull and grab, and I fight it.
I have to wake up.
**
Wake up.
Wake up.
Wake up.
WAKE UP
WAKE UP.
WAKE UP.
WAKE UP.
WAKE UP.
WAKE UP.
WAKE UP.
WAKE UP.
WAKE UP.
WAKE UP!
WAKE UP!
WAKE UP!
***
Indelible darkness inhabits all of me.
But…there is a spark.
Tiny, fragile, and precious. That spark is all I have. It is everything. Everything.
I breathe into it, cling to it, and give myself over to it.
The spark is not small, I realize, nor tiny…it is merely far away. I yearn for it. Strain for it. Reach, reach. I must, I have to—that spark is the fire of my soul. It is the only weapon against the darkness.
What is beyond the black? I don’t remember. But there’s something, some reason, some vital, all-consuming, all-compelling reason I must reach beyond the black, must exit these shadows, must find the spark and fan it into flame.
What is it?
Why can’t I remember?
I can’t remember. But there’s…something.
Drifting. Cold, empty, vast.
No, no. No. Not that, not any longer. I have to push, push for the light, for the something, for the spark.
The spark...what is the spark?
I don’t remember.
Warmth.
There is warmth. It soothes. It is peaceful, delicate, breathing through me, spreading through me. I like the warmth. It…it reminds me of something
skin
stubble, a caress, a whisper
a breath in the silence, a muffled sigh, a constricted sob
a voice
a sound which resonates through every last particle of my being
Conrad
****
Conrad is the spark. He’s the something. He’s the reason, the push, the essence, the fury.
He’s the light against the darkness, the agony within me driving me to chaotic, weltering, screaming rage against this darkness.
Conrad.
The warrior. The king. The gunslinger standing in the snow, breath hanging like frozen fog in the crystalline golden evening light. The master of my body, the owner of my sexuality
.
Breath.
I feel…I feel his breath.
I dare not let even the flimsiest shreds of hope flutter through me.
But…I feel.
Heat, warmth of breath on my…my shoulder. I’m aware of my shoulder.
My shoulder is real.
I am real.
I AM.
My name is…my name is Hannah Tavistock.
I have a shoulder, and Conrad is breathing on it. He’s here. He’s close.
CONRAD!
But I have no voice, no strength, no eyes, no throat, no hands. All I have is that fragment of sensation, the curve of my shoulder, and the warmth of Conrad’s breath on it, and the sound of his breathing soughing in and out slowly, rhythmically; he’s asleep beside me.
Hope, nascent and delicate, blossoms slowly, gradually, like sunrise.
And I cling to it. I cling to that sensation, his breath on my skin, and his sleeping presence beside me. It is all I have, and it will be my strength.
+
Floating, drifting, like a cottonwood seed in a long slow breeze.
There’s…something. Another sensation, a new one. I still feel the outside curve of my shoulder, though Conrad is no longer beside me, sleeping. But now…now there is something else. What is it? I feel it, but I can’t identify it. Can I…move it? I send an impulse, and even that effort is exhausting, debilitating, but I do it anyway, fling the impulse out into the emptiness…
And I feel something in return, a distant echo of the impulse I sent out. A toe? Yes, a toe. Pinky toe, and all I can do is send the impulse and feel the echo. But—I think…I think I’m wiggling it. Maybe just a tiny bit, not enough for anyone to notice, but it’s real.