Small Blue Thing

by S. C. Ransom

  The bleeping noise was getting faster again, and something someone had said made an itch inside my head. What was it? There was some connection between the strange beeping and what I had heard.

  “We have had lots more cards,” the woman’s voice continued gently, “and loads of flowers, but they won’t let us bring them in here. There is a huge card from your class – I’ll read you out all the messages later – and a very nice one from Rob.” The voice became more reflective. “He was very upset about something when he spoke to me. Did you two have another fight? I thought you’d split up but he still seems very keen.” The voice paused. “He seems to think that you were pretty upset, but I don’t believe that you would do anything silly. Not you. You are always so full of…”

  The voice suddenly dissolved as she began to sob. What was so wrong? Who was this Rob and what had happened between us? Why would it upset her so much?

  Eventually her breathing became more even. I waited to see if she would continue.

  “I’m sorry,” she murmured, “I’m not supposed to do that. But you know me… It’s just so hard. We have no idea what happened to you. If we knew that, maybe we would be able to make it right, get you better, bring you home…” The voice caught again, and I could tell she was struggling to regain control.

  I could hear the bleeping again, and a couple of pieces of the jigsaw finally clicked into place in my confused and foggy brain. I was in hospital, and it didn’t sound as if my prognosis was good.

  But I was fine – I just needed to tell this woman that she had the wrong bed, that I just couldn’t move for some reason. And as soon as I could work that out I could get on with …. what? I began to have a vague sense that something was really quite wrong.

  I tried to concentrate. The woman was starting to talk again, but in a rather different tone.

  “No, there is no change that I have noticed.”

  “It’s very strange,” said a new voice. “The printouts show that her heart rate went up dramatically just a few minutes ago. Are you sure there was no change in her colour, or…”

  “I’ve been watching all the time for anything different, but she is just the same. Do you think that the heart rate is a good sign?” the first voice asked hopefully.

  “Rather the opposite I’m afraid. It may be a sign that her system is stressed, and, given her condition, that’s not a good development. We have talked about the possibility…”

  The woman interrupted, and there was desperation in her voice. “But not so soon? I … I … thought we would have more time. Time to work out what to do.”

  “As we’ve said, it’s very, very hard to predict,” soothed the second voice. “With the machines these days people – like Alex – with irreversible brain stem dysfunction can be kept alive indefinitely. But you know that it’s important to come to terms with the fact that, even if we work out what happened to Alex, she won’t get any better.” The tone changed, became softer, less professional. “I’ve seen the scans.” A doctor, then.

  They can’t have been talking about me. They must have the wrong bed, I reasoned. There was nothing wrong with me. I just couldn’t move and I couldn’t think very clearly. Surely the scans could see that I was really alright. But what if they were talking about me? What would they do to me if they didn’t know I could hear them? If they didn’t know I could think? I tried to keep calm. The second voice was talking gently again and I had to concentrate hard to catch it all.

  “Did you know that Alex joined the organ donor register when she got her provisional driving licence?” The question was hesitant.

  There was silence. Then the first voice spoke again, so full of pain it was a miracle she could continue.

  “We talked about it. She was so sure that she wanted to be able to do something good if…” Her voice petered out.

  “I know it’s very hard, but I think you should give it some thought. Whatever happened to Alex, it only affected her brain. All her organs are in perfect condition and she would be an ideal donor.” The voice softened again. “There are a lot of other parents waiting for a miracle too.”

  There was a moment of silence, then the woman made a strange sound, of misery so deep, so absolute that I felt my heart would break for her. She couldn’t speak, but I could feel her rocking against my bed. The other voice kept quiet, letting her grieve.

  I really needed to concentrate now. There had been a hideous mistake and the woman who thought she was my mother was thinking about letting them take out my organs. I had to let them know that I could hear, that I was here.

  I tried again to focus all my efforts on moving my hand. She was holding it, so all I had to do was twitch it a little. I took a deep breath and willed all my strength to my fingers. For a second I thought it might work, that I could get through to her, but there was nothing. It was as if I was trying to push water uphill: all my efforts slipped away.

  “You don’t have to decide now,” the calm voice murmured. “There is still plenty of time. But it really doesn’t do any of you any good to keep her in this state. We’ve done the assessments and with no prospect of recovery you have to let her go. We can either use her organs to help others, or, switch off the machines and let nature take its course. Either way you will be able to get on with the grieving process.”

  There was silence. Why wasn’t she responding? I desperately wanted to be able to see. What if she was nodding?

  “Thank you for being so honest,” she choked. “Her father and I will decide what to do when he gets here later. He’s been with our son today. He’s taken it really badly.”

  A reprieve then, for a short while. “I’ll be back later,” said the second voice, “and the nurses will alert me immediately if there is any change.”

  “Thank you,” breathed the woman, and I felt her squeeze my hand. Shoes squeaked across the floor again and it went quiet, except for all the bleeping noises.

  I had some time to think.

  So I was paralysed but conscious; someone I didn’t know was making decisions about whether I lived or died; and I had no proper memories at all. Even my confused brain knew that this was very, very bad. I fought rising panic with an effort to be logical. The woman thought she was my mother. One possibility was that she was right. If I accepted that, then I had to assume that she would have my best interests at heart. She certainly sounded as if she cared. I guessed that she was unlikely to switch off the machines – switch me off – if there was any other option.

  But the doctor had suggested that there was no other real option. A surge of panic flooded through me. If there was no other option, I was going to die, and die soon.

  I became aware of the bleeping noise again, getting faster and faster. Finally I worked out what it was: a heart monitor. I was listening to my heart’s desperate, futile efforts, and I was listening to my only communication with the outside world.

  As I listened to the rhythmic noise, counting down towards my death, I realised that I did have an option: maybe I could make myself understood by changing my heart rate. I tried to relax, and see if I could stop it racing.

  I concentrated on slowing my breathing and started to feel calmer. In response, I could hear the monitor beginning to slow a little. I started to get excited with the thought that it might actually work, and the monitor’s beeping speeded up. I had to get the woman to notice something. Perhaps if I could make myself as calm as possible, any change would be more dramatic.

  I let myself drift. The fog I had been fighting earlier began to seep back around the edges of my mind. I let it unfurl and felt myself relax as its long tendrils began to wrap themselves around me. Giving into it was strangely comforting and I felt my concerns slip away. The fog soothed and stroked. There seemed to be nothing to do but give myself to the fog. Had I ever wanted anything else? Nothing else seemed to matter. There was a sudden noise which seemed to come from a thousand miles away, and for a second the fog parted. I could hear the woman’s voice again, urgent now.
r />   “Alex! Don’t go! Fight it, come back to me.”

  I struggled to understand. Go where? What was she so upset about?

  The fog swirled and writhed.

  “Alex, don’t give up, please. Please! Not just yet. Wait! Wait for Dad, at least!” She sounded so desperate that I began to fight. I gathered all my strength, forcing the fog back into the corners. It retreated, but I could sense it was there, waiting to come back. I realised I couldn’t risk letting it in again.

  I remembered my plan. Had it worked? Had it been worth inviting the fog to take me? Had the woman noticed any change? Had something I had done prompted this emotional outburst? I listened to the bleeping. It seemed so placid, giving no hint of the emotional turmoil going on inside my head.

  “Alex, please,” she begged, “you need to keep fighting. I can’t believe that you can’t hear me. You look almost as if you’re sleeping.” She paused. “I remember when you were little and every time I told you not to do something you’d do it. For a while I was able to get you to do all sorts of stuff by just telling you it wasn’t allowed. But then you got wise to my trick. I’m not sure that you have ever really done anything that you didn’t want to do since then. It makes me wonder how you have ended up in here, in this state.”

  She hesitated again. I waited to see if she was going to give me any more clues about that, but she was off in another direction. “You have been acting so strangely lately though. Always off on your own.” She took a deep breath. “So secretive. Grace doesn’t have a clue either … unless she’s somehow in on it. I can’t imagine she would keep anything from us now, though.” Another pause, then another deep breath.

  “Grace will be coming later. I thought you would want to see her. The doctors won’t usually let anyone except family in here, but I have been able to get her special permission. You two have always been so close. It will be hard on her, especially as she seems to blame herself, although I can’t think why she should.”

  I listened intently, desperate to hear something which might jog a memory and help me to let her know that I was still in here, still fighting, still wanting … what? It was gone: the ghost of a thought slipped past me before I could catch it. What was it I was yearning for? Or who?

  The woman talked on, recalling a childhood I couldn’t remember, a brother who meant nothing to me, a boyfriend I didn’t care about. In fact, a boyfriend I really didn’t care about, I realised: whenever she mentioned Rob, I felt a vague stirring of anger. If it wasn’t a memory, at least it was something. What had he done to me? I searched and searched for anything which would tie the feeling to the name, but yet again, nothing came to me.

  Eventually I heard her sigh and get up from my bedside. I felt her hair brush my cheek as she leant in to gently kiss my forehead.

  “I’ll be back in a little while, sweet-pea,” she murmured. “I need to go and talk to the doctors with Dad. Grace will be here in a minute.” She leaned closer, putting her mouth close to my ear. “Keep fighting,” she whispered, urgently. “Just find enough strength to give me a sign. I know you are still in there.” She kissed me again and was gone.

  Could she really tell, or was she just as desperate as I was? How was I going to communicate with her? As I worked fruitlessly through my non-existent options, I heard someone approach. The step was hesitant. “Alex?” whispered a new voice, younger than the others. “Your mum has got the doctors to give me ten minutes with you. It’s not really allowed, but, well, they can’t see what harm it can do.”

  This must be the Grace my mother had mentioned. Apparently she was my best friend. “I came to tell you that I’m really sorry.” It came out in a rush, as if she had been building up to it. “I don’t remember what happened, but I have a dreadful feeling that it was my fault in some way.” She hurried on, as if the quicker she said it, the less terrible it would be. “I took the package, and I was in Kew Gardens with the environmental studies group. All I remember is that I was by the Pagoda one minute, and then coming round in A&E, wearing your bracelet. I know how much you love it, so how it ended up on my wrist I can’t imagine…”

  She finally paused for breath, and I felt her hesitate. “I – I think there is something really odd about it. It makes me feel a bit … strange, wearing it. Like someone is watching me. But somehow I don’t feel right taking it off, or at least I didn’t – not until now.”

  She was making no sense to me at all. What package? What bracelet?

  “And now the package is missing, I’m really sorry. I don’t know what happened to it. When I came round it was gone from my bag. But as the bracelet was so important to you, I thought you would want it back before … before…” Her voice faded for a few seconds. “In fact, I won’t really feel right until I’ve got it back on your wrist. I’m not sure what the rules are about jewellery in here, but your mum can always take it off later.”

  This time her voice caught. There was a moment as she seemed to struggle, then a deep breath.

  “My time is nearly up,” she choked, “I want you to know that you were the best friend I could have had, and that I will never forget you. Please forgive me if somehow I caused all this. I will miss you horribly.” She dissolved into sobs.

  I felt my arm being lifted and something cool and comfortable being put around my wrist. Grace leaned over and kissed me, two hot tears dripping on my face.

  There was a long pause, and her voice cracked as she tried to speak again. Eventually she pulled herself together enough to speak. “I love you, Alex. Be happy, wherever you go,” she sobbed. Then she was gone, and I felt the cool breeze on my face as the tears dried.

  I was as good as dead. She was saying a last goodbye. How could I let them know that I was still here? As the thought went through my mind, I was aware of something strange: I felt no panic. The bracelet on my wrist felt cool against the skin of my wrist, and somehow soothing. It felt as if a wave of calm was flowing out of it, up my arm and around my body. The wave came closer to my head. What was going on? Was this it? Was this what death felt like? I felt the wave slowly surge into the only bit of me that was still me. As it reached my mind, I had a sudden blinding vision of a face, a face I knew I loved, and wanted. I felt a searing pain, a pain so harsh I felt myself straining up to try to get away, to try and call out, to make it stop. Then everything went blank.

  I slowly became aware of a lot of noise. People were talking loudly, the machines were bleeping and there seemed to be an argument going on.

  “But I can assure you Alex sat up for a moment.” The voice sounded really aggrieved. “Just look at the monitors. Something’s happened: the printouts have gone crazy.”

  “Thank you, Nurse Price. I’ll take over. Now don’t let me keep you from your duties.” There was a huffing noise and the sound of retreating footsteps.

  My mother’s voice cut in, breathless. “Doctor, what’s happened? I heard that there was a change, that Alex moved. Is that right? What does it mean?”

  The doctor sounded weary. “As I have explained before, Mrs Walker, Alex has suffered irreversible brain damage. We’ve given her all the relevant scans, and there is nothing to indicate any form of consciousness. If she did do anything, which I cannot believe for a moment,” and here the voice became dismissive, “it can’t have been voluntary.”

  “But she sat up! The visitors at the bed over there told me.”

  “I am afraid that’s just not possible. They must have been mistaken.”

  “But surely, Dr Sinclair,” said a new, deep voice, “isn’t it worth checking this out? I mean, shouldn’t we at least run some more tests? What have we got to lose?”

  “I can assure you that more tests would only raise your hopes unnecessarily.”

  The argument went on and on. I wanted peace to think. Something had changed completely, in a way I couldn’t quite define. If only my dad would stop shouting at the doctor.

  My dad? How did I know that the voice belonged to my dad? I could picture him with his kind
and mischievous eyes, which I was sure would now be narrowed in anger as he squared up to the doctor. What had happened? I really needed to think, and there was too much going on.

  “Please be quiet,” I tried to mutter, before realising that I had a large tube down my throat. I tried to cough it out. There was a stunned silence, and then pandemonium broke out.

  “Alex, was that you?” cried my mum, grabbing my hand. “Baby, can you hear me? Say something!”

  I could hear the doctor in the background. “It’s not possible! Not with a scan like that. Let me check her.”

  I felt a hand on my face as someone opened one of my eyes and shined a bright light in it.

  “Get off me!” I coughed. The light retreated and I felt hands pulling at me, checking my pulse, my reflexes, and finally taking out the tube. It was all too much. “Stop it!” I shouted with as much force as I could muster. “I need to think.” The hands disappeared.

  “I’ll fetch the consultant,” said a voice, and several pairs of feet clicked away. There was silence broken only by a quiet sobbing.

  “Oh, Alex, thank you! You came back!” sobbed my mum. “Just rest now. We can talk when you are ready.” I could hear some very unfamiliar snuffling noises. I opened my eyes cautiously. The light was unbearably bright, but Dad was sitting by the bed, tears streaming down his face and over a huge smile. I smiled back, then shut my eyes so that I could think. They would wait for me.

  Memories were flooding back to me now: my parents, Josh, Grace, school. My head felt as if it had been shaken and all the memories were still confused, but I wasn’t complaining: at least I had some now. But I sensed something was still missing.

  As I had the thought, I became aware of him. I could see his beautiful face, his smile, his blue, blue eyes. I knew I loved him. Then, like a crushing weight falling on me, I remembered everything: I loved Callum, but he didn’t love me. I had been trying to forget, and it had all gone horribly wrong.