Transition

by Henry Charles Mishkoff

  “I’m sure they are, dear,” Barbara Anne says, with unpracticed soothingness. “I’m sure they’re quite pleased.”

  Jago opens his mouth as if to speak, shuts it quickly, and then, again, opens and shuts it. He looks at Barbara Anne, who glowers darkly at him. Then he glances at G.W. who also opens and shuts his mouth quickly. Then he shrugs his shoulders and looks away.

  “What’s wrong?” Jillian asks.

  “Whatever do you mean, dear?” Barbara Anne says, ever so sweetly.

  “Cut the bullshit, Mother. Something’s going on. You’re trying to keep something from me.”

  “Don’t be silly dear. You’re just confused because of the medication, don’t you think that’s so, Doctor?”

  Is that true? Jillian wonders. Are the drugs making me paranoid? If I could only clear my head for just one minute, just long enough to figure out what’s going on in here…

  “I just said ‘bullshit’ to you, Mother,” Jillian points out, reasonably, “and you didn’t even flinch. Something’s up.”

  “I’m trying to make allowances for your condition, dear,” Barbara Anne says, stiffly. “You’ve suffered a serious injury, and you’ve been sedated. You don’t know what you’re saying.”

  “Bullshit.” Something is very wrong. They’re trying to keep something from me, and I won’t be able to stay awake long enough to figure out what it is. Am I injured more seriously than they’re letting on? What were they talking about? Something about the twins…

  “Coach,” she begs. “Tell me. Please.”

  It looks like Jago is just about to say something, but yet another withering glance from Barbara Anne shuts him up before he can speak.

  That settles it, Jillian thinks, there is something going on, I’m not imagining it.

  “Something about the twins,” she prompts.

  “Something about the twins,” Jago echoes, vapidly.

  Think. I’ve got to think. I passed the twins, then they passed me – or did they? Jillian frowns, trying to concentrate. Maybe they didn’t pass me, she thinks, excitedly. Maybe that was just part of my dream. Maybe I came in second, so I did make the Olympics, and Mother doesn’t want me to remember, because then I won’t let them operate…

  “Carla won the race, didn’t she?” Jillian asks, desperately trying to sort things out before she loses consciousness.

  “Yes, she did,” Jago confirms.

  “And the twins, what’s their names – the Kelvin twins, or whatever – they did pass me just before the finish line, didn’t they? I didn’t just imagine that, did I?”

  The delay before Jago responds is interminable. “No,” he finally says, “you did not imagine it. They did pass you.”

  I’m close to something, Jillian thinks. Why are they making me do this? It’s like some sadistic game of twenty questions. But this is too important to play games!

  “So Carla and the twins are going to the Olympics, right?”

  Now there’s an even longer pause. Jago looks at Jillian, then he looks down at the floor, then he looks up at Jillian again. Then he looks at Barbara Anne, who returns his gaze, hotly. Then he looks at G.W., but G.W. is staring earnestly through the window, studiously preoccupied with something of great interest going on just outside.

  “Jillian…” Jago begins.

  “Jago…” Barbara Anne says, some kind of threat implicit in her tone. “Don’t,” she commands.

  “Shut up, Mother,” Jillian says, but her voice sounds weak, even to her. Will they pay any attention to me? she wonders. Or am I just going to drift off? “Jago, tell me. Please. Tell me.”

  Dr. Gold clears his throat. “Although I don’t have even the slightest idea of what you folks are talking about, I do know that you’re disturbing my patient, and I’m afraid that I’m going to have to ask you to step outside. Please.”

  “Certainly, Doctor,” Barbara Anne says magnanimously. “Come, gentlemen,” she commands. Grabbing their arms, she begins to lead – or, perhaps, to drag – G.W. and Jago toward the door.

  “No!” Jillian tries to yell, although it sounds more like a squeak than a roar. Her head is pounding. The room is spinning. Everyone is staring at her with varying mixtures of confusion and concern.

  “Calm down, Jill,” Dr. Gold says, soothingly. “Just relax.” He reaches out toward Jillian, but she bats his arm away with surprising strength.

  Good, Jillian thinks, I’m not entirely out of it yet. And the movement even seems to have cleared up my head a little.

  I’ve got to stay awake.

  “Tell me,” she demands, trying to bring Jago’s image clearly into focus. “Jago,” she repeats, urgently, “tell me what’s going on.”

  “Come, Jago,” Barbara Anne says, still trying to pull him from the room. “Can’t you see that we’re disturbing her?”

  “She has a right to know, Barbara Anne,” Jago says, but it sounds more like a question than a statement, and Barbara Anne ignores him.

  “To know what?” Jillian demands, desperately. “Please, tell me!”

  “This is not the time to talk,” Barbara Anne insists, tugging on Jago’s arm.

  Everything has taken on a dreamlike, ethereal quality. In Jillian’s eyes, the scene in front of her seems less like an argument and more like a ballet, the interrelated movements gracefully choreographed, a pageant staged for her entertainment. And all the characters are so charmingly theatrical. There’s the concerned doctor, his round face knitted into a worried frown. And there’s Mother, typecast as the scheming shrew, the wicked witch cackling her evil incantations. And Daddy’s staring at me so strangely, like he wants to tell me something, as if he’s just about decided to step out of character and…

  She turns her head to the side, and there it is, just as she remembers it, a plastic cup half filled with clear water, sparkling in the reflected light. In one quick motion, as if she’s afraid that someone will try to stop her, she picks up the cup and dashes the water into her face.

  It’s perfect, cool and refreshing. A real eye-opener.

  “Jill, what…” Dr. Gold grabs the cup from her hands, disarming her.

  “Jillian, really…” Registering shock and disgust, Barbara Anne pauses briefly in her effort to clear the room.

  “Tell me, Daddy,” Jillian says, staring into G.W.’s eyes with all the clarity she can muster. Jago’s hopelessly cowed by Mother, she thinks, but Daddy was just about to say something. “Please, Daddy,” she moans, helplessly. “Don’t you love me?”

  “Of course I love you, sweetheart,” G.W. says. “But…”

  “G.W.!” Barbara Anne is furious. “You leave this room at once!”

  “Please, Daddy!”

  “G.W.! Now!”

  “Now, hold on just a doggone minute!” G.W. shakes off Barbara Anne’s hand angrily. “Goddamn it, Barbara Anne, don’t you go dragging me around like a heifer at an auction.”

  “Daddy…” Weakly.

  “I probably oughta keep my big mouth shut,” G.W. says. “But what the hell…”

  “G.W.! Don’t you dare!”

  “Jago,” G.W. barks. “Take her out of here.”

  Jago’s mouth drops open in horror. Take Barbara Anne out of here? How? And even before he can think about it, Barbara Anne looks at him with such seething fury that Jago instinctively throws his hands out in a gesture of surrender. No threat from me, lady, he seems to be saying, as he smiles sickly.

  “The twins were disqualified, Jill,” G.W. says. He walks over to the side of the bed, sits down, and begins to stroke her hand.

  “Oh, Jesus.” Barbara Anne stamps her foot and throws up her hands in disgust.

  “Disqualified?” Jillian is puzzled. This is important information, obviously, but what does it mean?

  “They were passing a water bottle back and forth. Which, as it turns out, seems to be against the rules. ‘Illegal assistance,’ I think they called it. So they were disqualified.”

  “Disqualified?” Was that the big sec
ret? she wonders, more than a little let down. What difference does that make? Who cares if those dumb little ponytails were disqualified?

  “So you came in second, sweetheart,” G.W. explains. “The twins were disqualified, so you came in second, and Sunshine came in third. We didn’t want to tell you, because we didn’t want to get you upset, because it doesn’t look like you’re gonna be running in the Olympics anyway, not with your knee messed up like that…”

  The Olympics! So that’s what this is all about, Jillian realizes, as the light slowly dawns. I made the goddamn Olympics! But if they cut up my knee…

  “Daddy,” Jillian whispers urgently, conspiratorially. “Don’t let them do it.”

  Then there’s some kind of commotion. Barbara Anne is angry, and Jago is trying to explain something to someone, and the doctor is trying to get everyone to calm down. But Jillian and G.W. are locked into each other’s eyes, screening out all distractions.

  “What do you want to do?” G.W. asks. She sees the uncertainty in his eyes, and she knows that he’s already second-guessing his decision to speak up.

  “I want arthroscopic surgery, Daddy,” Jillian says, although her voice is so muddled that she’s not at all sure if he’ll be able to understand her. Her eyes flutter closed, but she wills them open again. “Call the Sports Medicine Clinic up in Frisco,” she directs, pronouncing each word softly but distinctly, as if she’s trying to communicate with a small child. “They’ll know what to do.”

  “Sports Medicine Clinic,” G.W. nods, as the hubbub continues in the background.

  “In Frisco,” Jillian whispers. And this time, when her eyelids flutter closed, they do not reopen.

  “Done and done,” G.W. says, squeezing her hand.

  “Daddy?”

  “Yes, precious?”

  “You promise you won’t let them cut on me?”

  “Promise.” He strokes her face. She smiles and cuddles up to the warmth of his hand. “You just go on to sleep, doll, and let your old man take care of everything.”

  For some reason, this strikes Jillian as terrifically amusing, and she grins broadly, but only for a moment, and then the strain of maintaining a smile is too great, and it slowly dissolves.

  “Daddy?”

  “Right here, precious.”

  “I love you, Daddy.” Did she really say it? Or did her lips just move wordlessly?

  “I love you too, sweetheart,” G.W. says softly.

  But Jillian doesn’t hear a word, because she’s somewhere far away, laughing and playing in a dim twilight, running and tumbling, twisting and spinning, and spinning, and spinning, and spinning…

  3.2.4: Hospital

  Her knee, she slowly realizes, as she drifts back into a hazy consciousness, has stopped throbbing.

  But when she pulls back the covers to take a look, she’s greeted by the heart-stopping sight of a bloody stump where her right leg should be. The rest of her leg appears to have been crudely amputated just above the knee.

  Her knee doesn’t hurt anymore because it’s no longer there.

  She screams, of course. And the scream startles her from a dream of wakefulness into the real thing. And she is actually trying to scream, but nothing’s coming out. Which, she vaguely realizes, is just as well.

  Her body is clammy with sweat. Her heart is pounding so loudly that surely everyone in the room can hear it. If, indeed, anyone is in the room. But it’s dark, and she doesn’t feel like lifting her head to look around, and she certainly doesn’t feel like speaking. If she opens her mouth, she might scream again, this time for real.

  Maybe this is a dream too, she thinks. Maybe I’m dreaming that I just woke up from a dream about waking up from a dream…

  She yanks back the covers as quickly as she can, just to get it over with. A white cast covers her leg from mid-thigh to mid-calf. Which isn’t great, she knows, but it’s a whole lot better than it could have been. She considers reaching out to touch the cast, but the simple act of throwing back the sheet and blanket has exhausted her.

  This doesn’t look like the same hospital room I was in before, she thinks, straining to see in the dim light. So maybe Daddy did get them to move me to Frisco. Or maybe it’s just a different room at Baylor. Or maybe it’s the same room, but it’s so dark – and I’m so fucked up – that I don’t recognize it. Or maybe…

  And she’s still assessing the possibilities when her eyes slowly close and she drifts back off to sleep.

  3.2.5: Hospital

  A woman in a white uniform is humming softly as she straightens the sheets and blankets. Jillian observes the woman’s ministrations, marveling at her energy and efficiency. She thinks that she probably should say something to let the woman know that she’s awake, but what would she say? She’s still mulling it over when the woman notices that Jillian’s eyes are open and smiles a pleased grin that Jillian can clearly see, even in the dim light.

  “Hi, there, sleepyhead,” the woman whispers cheerfully. “How do you feel?”

  “Where am I?” It takes an enormous amount of effort to speak, and her voice is so weak that she’s not even sure that she can be heard.

  “You’re in one of our recovery rooms.”

  “What hospital?”

  “Sports Medicine Clinic. In Frisco. How do you feel?”

  But Jillian, a satisfied smile on her lips, is already fading back off to sleep.

  3.2.6: Frisco

  “Water?” she asks, her eyes still tightly shut. Did I speak loudly enough for anyone to hear me? she wonders. Is there anyone here to hear me? Maybe I should open my eyes and see if there’s some kind of button I can press to call a nurse…

  “Did you say something, sweetheart?”

  Daddy! She smiles, but the cracking of her parched lips makes her remember her request.

  Her eyes flutter open. Dusty shafts of dim light are squeezing through the blinds. G.W. is standing by the bed, gazing down at her with obvious concern.

  “Water,” she whispers again. And in an instant, a cool plastic cup is pressing against her hand.

  “Can you handle this?” he asks. “Or do you want me to…”

  “Hold my head up,” she suggests as she takes the cup from his hand. With G.W.’s assistance, she leans forward and takes a few sips; then, worn out, she sinks back down into the pillow.

  “How am I?” she asks.

  “You’re doing great, Jill. The doctor said that your knee wasn’t really as messed up as it looked. He said that you came through it like a real trooper. He said…”

  “Doctor?”

  “Doctor? You mean, who’s the doctor? His name’s Patel, V.J. Patel. Indian feller. But he’s really good,” G.W. adds quickly, as if Jillian’s in need of reassurance. “He’s the director…”

  Jillian shakes her head, a barely perceptible motion. “When?”

  “When? Ummm, gee…” – G.W. glances at his watch – “… it was early evening, I think. I don’t remember the exact…”

  “Here,” Jillian interrupts. When the light of comprehension fails to dawn in G.W.’s eyes, she realizes that she’s going to have to try to string a few words together. She clears her throat. “When will he be here?” she asks, in a painfully hoarse whisper, as her eyes begin to slide shut.

  “I think he said he’d be here mid-morning,” G.W. says. “It’s only about…” – he glances at his watch again – “… six-thirty now, so he probably won’t be in for a few hours. I don’t think he expected you to be awake this early.”

  I’m not awake, Jillian tries to say, but she can’t, because she isn’t.

  3.2.7: Frisco

  She sleeps fitfully, awakening several more times, staying awake just long enough to confirm that the doctor hasn’t arrived yet, then drifting back off to sleep.

  At one point she opens her eyes to see a nurse scurrying around, doing something that Jillian can’t quite figure out. She asks for some water, and the nurse pours her a cup, asking how she feels.

  “Ok
ay,” Jillian says. “Sore.” She yawns. “Tired.”

  “That’s the anesthetic,” the nurse explains. “But it’s wearing off. You’ll feel better in a couple of hours. As long as you’re awake, dear, let me check your blood pressure, okay?”

  As the nurse wraps a cuff around her arm, Jillian notices that G.W. is sitting in a chair next to the bed, his head thrown back, his mouth open, faintly snoring. And in another chair, curled up in a tight ball, her head resting on her thighs, is an easily identifiable mop of stringy red hair. What’s she doing here? Jillian wonders dreamily, but she drifts back off to sleep before she can make any effort to find out.

  3.2.8: Frisco

  She awakens to a flurry of activity. “What’s going on?” she asks, pleased to notice that her words are starting to sound like they’re being spoken by an actual human.

  “Hooking up some equipment,” says a voice that sounds like it comes from the floor at the foot of her bed. A head pops up, a youngish guy grins at her uncertainly. As if to verify his purpose, he holds up his hands for her inspection – he’s clutching a screwdriver in one and some kind of adjustable wrench in the other. “Sorry to wake you up, but they told me it was okay.”

  “What kind of equipment?” she asks. Equipment? That sounds ominous. Dialysis? Iron lung?

  “Exercise equipment,” G.W. says.

  “I didn’t know you were still here, Daddy.” She manages a weak smile.

  He smiles back. “I’ve been here all night, sugar.”

  “Was Sunshine here too? Or did I dream that?”

  “She was here.” G.W. looks around. “Probably still is, somewhere. She must’ve run down the hall for a minute. She was worried about you.”

  “That’s sweet.” It’s funny how her feelings about Sunshine turn hot and cold so quickly. Strange girl. “Where's Mother?”

  Pause. “She had to go home.” Strained.

  “I’ll bet.”

  “Jago’s out rounding up all kinds of exercise equipment. And this gentleman is hooking up some kind of special adapter to your bed frame so you can exercise in bed, or something like that.” He holds out his hands and shrugs. “Don’t ask me.”