Behind the Falls

by Brenda Zalegowski

  “I have to get out!” I say urgently. Dad gets his arm between the doors to keep them from closing and holds them long enough for all of us to get out. “I’m sorry,” I gasp. “It was just too…”

  “We understand,” Mom says. “We can take the stairs.” I take a deep breath and we go in search of the stairs.

  Mark told us where to go, what hallway, what room number, and when we finally get there he’s in the hall, not in the room with Max.

  “Mark?” calls my mom because she can see he’s in his own little world and she doesn’t want to startle him. When he looks up she gives him a hug. When they’re done Dad and Mark do the handshake into a hug thing guys do and then Mark turns his attention back to the room. There’s a glass window so the room is visible from the hallway. I can’t bring myself to look at the window just yet.

  Mark turns around to look at us again and then he takes me into his arms in a strong hug. He’s so solid but I notice for the first time he’s not even as tall as my dad. He always seemed taller to me, probably because he’s so strong and has this commanding air about him. I allow him to hug me as long as he wants.

  “You doing okay, Noah?” he asks. How can I even matter to him right now?

  “I’m okay,” I say. He relaxes the hug but doesn’t let me go completely. He keeps one arm around my shoulders and turns me towards the window. I have no choice but to look unless I close my eyes or look at my feet and what would be the point of that? I demanded to come here after all.

  “They’re taking a chest x-ray with a portable machine. It’s a little difficult to just take him to radiology,” Mark says and I can hear the strain of trying to keep his voice calm and even. “They have a few more things to take care of and then you can go in.”

  “Okay,” I say and I finally look through the window into the room. It’s hard to see the figure in the bed with the medical team moving here and there. When the radiology team leaves and it’s just a nurse and doctor I have a better view and that figure in the bed just isn’t Max. He’s too small, too pale too…still. Mark clears his throat.

  “He’s on a vent. He took on too much water in his lungs which caused pulmonary edema and acute respiratory distress. There is still fluid in the lungs. Yesterday he had a seizure and they’re giving medication to hopefully suppress further seizures. Hypothermia caused heart complications,” here Mark breaks down and can’t continue. He squeezes my shoulders. Mom stands on Mark’s other side and he puts his other arm around her shoulders. He’s just so broken.

  “The doctors say the hypothermia is actually a good thing too because it delayed the effects of hypoxia so hopefully there will be no neurological damage.”

  “Neurological damage?” I whisper. “Is he…”I don’t know how to ask the question. I can’t ask Mark what I need to know considering that Max’s mom was in a coma and they said she’d never wake up. It was just machines keeping the body alive. That’s not Max is it?

  I wonder if Mark still believes that everything happens for a reason. If he’s right about that then what is the reason for this? If Max dies, what is the reason? How can Mark stand it?

  “There’s brain activity,” Mark assures us. “Until he wakes up we won’t really know anything beyond that. The doctors tell me that the first area of the brain to suffer damage in near-drowning incidents is the cerebral cortex, which is responsible for the brain's highest conscious functions…memory, speech and voluntary movement. They tell me that with near drowning they tend to see either complete recovery or very severe neurological problems.”

  Mark sighs and rubs a hand down his face. I realize how tired Mark looks and how much he seems to have aged since the last time I saw him. He hasn’t shaved and he can barely keep his eyes open. Mom notices this as well.

  “Mark, you should go home for the night or at least get a room. Get a good night’s sleep in a real bed,” Mom tries to convince him. He shakes his head.

  “The couch in the room is fine,” he says. I can see the couch on the other side of the room under the window. It’s built into the wall and isn’t even big enough for a person as small as my mom to sleep on comfortably.

  “You’re no good to him if you’re exhausted,” Dad agrees with Mom.

  Mark may not share any genes with Max but I can see the similarities anyway. I can see it in the way Mark now brushes his fingers through his short hair and the helpless shrug he gives. I can see it in the way he takes his bottom lip into his mouth, overlapping it with his top teeth. I always thought Max was playing with his snakebites when he does that but seeing the same gesture on Mark I now realize it’s something else like worry or thoughtfulness. All of these little gestures Max obviously learned from this man.

  “I can’t leave,” Mark says. “If these are the last hours of my son’s life,” his voice breaks. “I have to be here.”

  The doctor leaves the room and Mark steps away from us to talk to him quietly. I can’t hear anything they say but I see Mark nodding. He doesn’t look any happier than he did before but he doesn’t look any more upset either. I’m imagining that the doctor is telling him nothing has changed. We’re still just waiting. The doctor squeezes Mark’s shoulder before going on his way. Mark approaches us again.

  “You can go in now, Noah,” he tells me. I look back into the room at the figure I’m still not convinced is Max. I notice the bandages on his hands.

  “His hands?” I say because it’s all I can force out of my mouth. What I’m thinking is frost bite and lost fingers and horrible things like that and the fact that Max paints and plays guitar and piano. I realize I’ve never actually heard him play piano and somehow that seems so important to me now, like I wasted time that I thought I had in abundance.

  “He has some pretty severe lacerations,” Mark explains. “They think probably from under the ice…”he breaks down again and I don’t torture him with more questions. I can imagine it too well for myself, Max struggling under ice, trying to save himself, cutting his hands to shreds. I shudder.

  “Are you okay, honey? Do you want me to go in with you?” Mom asks.

  “No, I need to do this myself,” I tell her. I continue to look into the room through the window. I know I have to go in there and I don’t know why I’m so afraid.

  “You can stay for a while,” Mark says. “There aren’t any other tests or anything scheduled.” He yawns widely. “I’m going to grab a quick cup of coffee,” he says but he doesn’t leave until I finally make my way to the door.

  I stand in the doorway for a few minutes. Dad has taken a seat in the hallway but Mom is standing by the window. I motion for her to go sit with Dad. I know why I’m hesitating. When I go in that room and see him up close I’ll know for sure if that’s Max in that bed. I’m still not convinced and I don’t think I really want to know.

  The nurse stayed behind when the doctor left and she motions me inside so finally I enter the room. I don’t get too close to the bed. I look around the room. I’ve never been in an ICU room before. There’s a lot of equipment and several different monitors. There’s a pillar on the other side of the bed that’s covered in electrical outlets. A lot of them are occupied with plugs for the copious amounts of equipment.

  “It’s okay, come on in,” the nurse says with a smile. She indicates a chair next to the bed and I slowly make my way towards it.

  “His eyes?” I say because there is white tape over his eyes.

  “Oh, they keep popping open on their own but since he doesn’t blink his eyes will dry out. The tape keeps them closed.” How can she seem so upbeat and normal? I can’t stop imagining Max lying here, comatose and then his bright blue eyes pop open. I feel sick. I take the chair.

  Now that I’m close, right here next to the bed, I have to admit that it is Max. At the same time it’s not the Max I know. It’s just surreal. Max is so vibrant and larger than life and this still form is just…diminished somehow. His hair is off of his face and there are electrodes or something stuck to his temples. I’m
assuming that’s how they measure the brain activity. I don’t know. The tape on the eyes freaks me out but not as much as the tube that goes into his mouth and down his throat that’s attached to the vent.

  Suddenly I can’t help but feel that MY Max is already gone. I’m suddenly aware of the sound of the vent, too loud, breathing its false life into and out of him. He looks like a wax work of the real Max. If he doesn’t wake up I don’t want to remember him this way! I reach out a hand to touch him but pull it back at the last second. I have this irrational fear that this is all some kind of sick joke and this really is a waxwork and I don’t want to find out that I’m wrong.

  “It’s okay, you can touch him,” the nurse says. I look at her with raised eyebrows. “You can talk to him too if you want. We’re not really sure if comatose patients are aware of what’s going on around them but some people think they can hear us, know that we’re here. I’ve had patients wake up and recall full conversations that have happened in the room while they were out.” She finishes up whatever it was that she was doing and then leaves me alone.

  I lean front in the chair and gingerly touch his arm. It’s soft like an arm, not wax. It’s warm too. For some reason I expected him to be cold. I don’t know why I thought that…maybe because he’s so still. I put my whole hand on his arm and rub my thumb back and forth lightly against his skin.

  “Hi, Max,” I say and then I have to swallow past the lump in my throat before I can go on. “What were you thinking?” I sigh. I don’t know how to do this. “Max, you’re my best friend and I’m just a messed up freak. I’m so, so sorry. You have to hear me. You have to wake up so I can tell you how incredibly stupid I’ve been. You have to wake up so you can forgive me.”

  I sit there next to his bed for at least fifteen minutes apologizing every way I know how. I tell him how wrong I was to not accept his apology right away. I tell him how sorry I am that I called him all of those horrible names and how I ran away from him. I tell him over and over again that he has to wake up so I can make this right.

  The entire time I break down more and more. I started crying at some point. It seems like all I ever do is cry these days. I’m shaking and it’s just getting worse. I almost wish I had taken a whole dose of meds. It’s just so hard, but I wanted to feel this. I needed to feel this. It’s what I deserve.

  I can’t stop thinking about what Mark said about neurological problems. Memory, speech, voluntary movement, what if any or all of those things are affected? I have a horrible mental picture of Max in a wheelchair unable to speak or play music or do anything. Would he know? Would his brilliant mind be intact and capable of thought while he’s unable to control his body? Death would be better.

  As I break down more and more Max stays exactly the same. He doesn’t even twitch. The only movement is the rise and fall of his chest as the vent breathes air into and out of him. The vent is suddenly too loud and the only sound I can hear. I stare at his too white, too still face. His cheeks look sunken in and there’s something else….I don’t know why but it’s when I realize that they’ve removed all of his piercings, even the ones in his ears, that’s when I really lose it…

  Suddenly I’m outside the room sitting on the floor while Mom and a nurse try to calm me down and keep me quiet. I don’t know how I got here or how long I’ve been here but on the edge of my awareness I realize that Mark returned at some point.

  Mom has hold of me from behind, her arms around me holding my arms down as I struggle and the nurse is trying to force something into my mouth. It has to be meds, what else could it be? My jaw is clamped down tightly.

  In the background of my awareness I hear Dad reassuring Mark that this isn’t about Max. Mark doesn’t seem convinced. He’s agitated I can tell that much even though I’m kinda caught up in my own problems right now.

  “Mark, it’s okay. There’s been no change with Max. Just ask the nurse,” I hear Dad’s voice. Why won’t Mom just let go of me so I can get out of here? Why is this nurse trying to force drugs into me when I obviously don’t want them? I can hear Dad sigh. How can I hear that when my ears are ringing so loudly? Maybe I imagined the sigh. Maybe I’m imagining all of this.

  “Noah has a severe panic disorder,” Dad finally explains to Mark.

  “Panic disorder? What does that mean? Like post traumatic stress?” Mark asks. I try to bite the nurse. She’s quicker than me though and the second my jaw opens to take a bite she shoves the drugs in my mouth and I’m so surprised that I swallow reflexively. I’m really barely there so it may be my imagination that says Mark is staring at me like I’m some kind of freak.

  “Noah struggles with extreme anxiety and severe bouts of depression and he has panic attacks. Usually he’s fine, sometimes he needs medication and other times, times of high stress usually, he can’t control it and can barely function.” Why is Dad telling him all of this? It’s lies anyway. I’m not depressed and I CAN function. The drugs are stuck in my throat and I choke and cough. The nurse helps me drink some water.

  “I don’t understand. Why is this happening now? Did something happen with Max that set him off?” Mark asks. I can hear some sympathy in his voice, or probably it’s pity for my parents, but I also hear fear. I should know what fear sounds like. He’s still afraid something has gone wrong with Max.

  “Nothing has changed with Max. The nurse reassured us. Who knows what caused this? Sometimes fear or stress can trigger it but quite often it’s just something that happens. I’m sorry it scared you,” Dad says. He suddenly sounds as tired as Mark. “It’s why I didn’t want him to come here.”

  “I’m so sorry, Oliver. I had no idea. Max never said anything,” Mark consoles my dad when it should be Dad consoling him.

  “Most likely Max doesn’t know. Noah doesn’t really talk about it. He prefers to keep it secret and, to be honest, I think he’s in denial about how bad it gets. I hate to ask…”

  “No, don’t give it a thought. Of course I won’t say anything to anyone. I was just terrified when I came back and saw him like this. I thought something…I just thought,” Mark can’t go on with that train of thought. “Thank you for explaining.”

  “Let me go!” I growl at my mom. She loosens her hold but doesn’t let go of me.

  “Perhaps we should take him down to emergency?” The nurse suggests.

  “No, we’ll be okay. As soon as the drugs kick in we’ll take him home. Thank you for your help,” Mom says. Even though Mom has dismissed her, the nurse still hovers. She’s not going to hesitate to call for security or stronger drugs or the guys with butterfly nets and straightjackets at one wrong move from me. I try to relax and appear unthreatening.

  As I begin to calm down I become increasingly embarrassed, especially with Mark right there knowing what he now knows. I slump against Mom in defeat because, I’m losing it aren’t I? Having an attack in a hospital is not the best case scenario. I’m lucky I’m not already on the mental ward. Dad was right. I should never have come here today or ever.

  Eventually I’m calm enough that Mom lets go of me. Mark is understandably keeping his distance. Mom keeps her arm around my shoulders as Mark and Dad hug quickly and awkwardly again.

  “Sorry again about all of this,” Dad apologizes for me. I look at the floor. I can’t meet Mark’s gaze.

  “If you need anything don’t hesitate to call,” Mom adds. “If Lydia needs help with the kids so she can come just call me.” Mark approaches slowly and gives Mom a hug before turning to me.

  “Thanks for coming today, Noah. Feel better,” he says as he gives me a hug. Feel better…as if I’m sick or something. Well, I guess in his eyes I am.

  “I’m sorry,” I mumble. Mark just hugs me tighter. Eventually I pull away because I need to get out of here soon. Drugs or not, I’m feeling like I could lose it again at any second. I look towards the window that overlooks the room. He’s still just lying there exactly the way he was when I first arrived. Did I expect my presence to perform some kind of miracle o
r something? I feel an invisible hand squeeze my heart.

  “If…uh…when he wakes up could you just let him know I was here and I said I’m sorry?” I ask. Mark nods and hugs me again and then we leave. I’m so out of it now from meds that I just let Mom lead me through the hospital. Dad keeps a close watch on me as we enter the elevator but I’m fine. I’ve been telling them forever that I’m fine. When we get to the car Dad helps me into my seatbelt. I stare out the window as we drive away.

  “Now you see why I thought this was a bad idea,” Dad says quietly. He knows I’m awake he just doesn’t think I’m paying attention.

  “I still think it would have been worse if we had said no. If Max, God forbid, doesn’t wake up Noah wouldn’t forgive us for keeping him away…”

  “And what good did it do?” Dad’s voice rises. He never raises his voice to my mom. I want to tell him to just leave her alone but I can’t make myself care enough to speak.

  “Ollie, just don’t okay? It’s been a long few days. We have to be a team,” Mom says quietly.

  “Exactly, we have to be a team and I did NOT want this. How is anything that happened today a good thing?”

  “Just stop!” I yell from the back seat before bursting into tears. They both go silent and stay that way all of the way home.

  At home I head straight for my room. “Keep your door open,” Dad says gruffly. I’m a prisoner in my own house and I’m not allowed any privacy. I pretty much spend the day curled up on my bed. I play some movies on Netflix on my laptop but I’m not really watching them. The movies are just so my parents don’t worry about me when they come in to check on me.

  Mom brings a lunch tray to my room like I’m sick or something. It’s tomato soup and grilled cheese…another Gran standby. I take a few bites of sandwich and put the tray on my desk. When Mom comes in later to collect my tray she’s not happy that I haven’t eaten but how can I? I have no appetite. My stomach is in knots. If I ate I would just throw up immediately anyway.