“Rosa said Whiskey moved,” Juliet said slowly.
“What do you mean, moved?”
“I don’t know. But it sounds like good news, doesn’t it? Let’s ring back and find out.”
“Wait a minute,” Charlie said. “I need a minute. Are you sure that’s what she said?”
“Positive. She sounded really happy. Do you want me to play you the message?”
Charlie shook his head. “I thought it was going to be bad news.”
“I know,” Juliet said. “I thought the same. Let’s ring Rosa, and you can talk to her, put your mind at rest.”
She dialed the number and gave the phone back to him.
Rosa answered at once. “Charlie! Thank goodness. Did you listen to my message? He moved, Charlie, Whiskey moved! He’s coming back to us at last!”
Charlie felt shocked by Rosa’s excitement. He was lagging behind, still getting over the dread that had tightened around his heart before Juliet listened to the message.
“What happened?”
“He squeezed my hand!” Rosa said triumphantly.
“Are you sure?”
“I am absolutely sure,” she said impatiently, and Charlie could hear the old Rosa in her voice, the spark he had almost forgotten.
“Should we come over?”
“Of course, Charlie, of course! Your mother is already on her way.”
“What did she say?” Juliet asked as he hung up.
“She said Whiskey squeezed her hand.”
“I can’t believe it! After all this time!”
Juliet hugged Charlie, elated. Charlie found himself unable to respond.
“What’s wrong, Charlie?” she asked, pulling away. “Did Rosa say something else?”
He shook his head.
“What then? Aren’t you happy? Whiskey’s waking up!”
“We don’t know that yet,” Charlie said hesitantly. He remembered the drive to the hospital on New Year’s Day, after Whiskey opened his eyes; the way they had all sat around Whiskey’s bed for hours on end, hardly daring to take their eyes off him for fear they might miss something. It had taken them days to admit to themselves what the medical staff had told them right away, that opening his eyes didn’t mean Whiskey was coming out of his coma, that it might not mean anything at all. Charlie couldn’t bear to go through it all again: the hope, the disappointment.
“It’s possible Rosa might have made a mistake,” he said to Juliet. “Let’s wait and see what the doctors say.”
x x x
Charlie’s mother was already sitting with Rosa beside Whiskey’s bed when Charlie and Juliet arrived.
“Isn’t it wonderful?” she said, standing up to greet them.
“I can hardly believe it,” Juliet said, hugging her and Rosa exuberantly. “Does Mike know?”
“He’ll come as soon as he’s dropped the girls off at school.”
“Have there been any other signs?” Charlie asked, bending down to kiss Rosa hello.
“Not yet,” she said. Charlie could see her holding Whiskey’s hand tightly.
“What did the doctors say?” he asked.
“They haven’t been here yet,” Rosa said dismissively.
“Why not?”
Rosa didn’t answer.
“The nurse said they won’t call a doctor unless there are further signs,” Charlie’s mother said after a pause.
“Who said that?”
“Robina.”
“She wouldn’t call a doctor?” Charlie was incredulous.
“Apparently she told Rosa it might only have been a reflex.”
Charlie looked at Rosa. “A reflex? Is that possible, Rosa?”
“For goodness’ sake, Charlie, not you as well!” Rosa snapped. “For the last nine months I have done nothing but sit here and hold Whiskey’s hand. Do you think I do not know what a reflex feels like?”
“Sorry, Rosa,” Charlie said. “I just don’t want to…”
Juliet looked at him warningly. “Maybe Charlie could talk to Robina,” she suggested.
Rosa shrugged.
“Do you want me to come with you?” Juliet asked him.
“No,” Charlie said. “You stay here. I won’t be long.”
Out in the corridor, he leaned against the wall. The atmosphere in Whiskey’s room was too charged, too intense. It was difficult not to get swept up in Rosa’s excitement. It wasn’t impossible she had felt something. It might have been true. But it had been the early hours of the morning; she must have been tired; wasn’t it as likely that she had imagined it? Or been half asleep and dreamed it? Charlie wished Mike was there. He needed someone to help him keep a grip on himself.
He found Robina in the supplies cupboard.
“Hello, Charlie,” she said. “I thought I might see you this morning.”
“Is it true what Rosa said?” Charlie asked her.
“Which part?”
“That you won’t call a doctor.”
“It’s not that I won’t call a doctor,” Robina said gently. “It’s just that sometimes, with coma patients, someone might think they’ve seen something or felt something, and it turns out to be a false alarm. Now we’ve checked Whiskey’s monitor, and his vital signs are unchanged. But if Rosa was right—if she did feel something, and if it was a genuine sign of arousal—there’s a good chance there’ll be further signs. So it’s not that I won’t call a doctor. But I’d like to see further evidence of arousal before I do that. Do you understand?”
Charlie nodded.
“I know it must be terribly hard on you, Charlie,” Robina said sympathetically. “You want it so much to be true. And we do too. But it’s better not to get your hopes up at this stage, just in case.”
Charlie nodded again and turned to head back to Whiskey’s room. Halfway there, he changed his mind, went back to the supplies cupboard.
“If Rosa was right, though,” he said, “when would we know? How soon would there be another sign?”
“The rate of recovery varies a lot,” Robina said. “It’s difficult to predict the speed at which a patient will emerge from a coma.”
“But could you give me a rough idea? I mean, if there are no further signs today, would that prove Rosa was wrong?”
“I’m very hesitant to put a time frame on these things, Charlie, because there are always exceptions to the rule. But if you want some kind of norm to work by, it would be reasonable to say that if there’s been no further signs of arousal in the next thirty-six to forty-eight hours, it would probably indicate that Rosa was mistaken.”
Forty-eight hours. Charlie nodded grimly. “Thank you.”
x x x
Try not to get your hopes up, Robina had said. And Charlie did try. But as the long, slow minutes gave way to hours, he lost his resolve. He felt hope surging through him like adrenaline, making him fidget and sweat. Looking around that tiny room, he saw it on every face. He understood then the phrase he had seen in the title of Victor’s book—the tyranny of hope. It was like a habit you couldn’t kick, a false friend who kept you clinging on long after you should have let go.
Late that afternoon, standing up to stretch, Charlie felt tense and shaky, utterly drained. His own body odor smelled strange to him. He and Juliet had been sitting beside Whiskey for almost eleven hours, his mother a little longer, Rosa a great deal more. Mike had been and gone, leaving reluctantly just before three to pick up the girls from school. All day they had survived on the strong tea and biscuits the catering staff brought around on trolleys. Charlie suddenly realized how hungry he was.
“I need to eat,” he said. “We all do.”
It was while Charlie was at the hospital cafeteria, waiting for their toasted sandwiches, that Whiskey moved again. But it didn’t matter that Charlie missed it. Because Rosa and his mother and Ju
liet all saw it, and they couldn’t all have imagined it.
All day the room had been quiet, but after Charlie came back from the cafeteria, they couldn’t stop talking. Charlie heard the account of how Whiskey had bent and straightened his index finger, first from Juliet, then from his mother, and last from Rosa. None of them had anything to add to the other versions. But each of them needed to describe it for themselves. Charlie didn’t mind. He could have listened to it recounted a dozen times. When they phoned Mike to tell him the news, he too seemed to need to have it repeated. He spoke first to Rosa, then to Elaine, then to Rosa again. Next they called Audrey, who was getting over the flu and could not come for fear of passing the virus to Whiskey. By then Charlie had heard the story so many times, he had gotten over his disappointment at missing it. By then he felt sure Whiskey would move again, and this time he would be there to witness it.
He didn’t have to wait long. It was only a few hours later that he saw Whiskey slowly flex the fingers in his left hand, relax, and then flex them again. Charlie shrieked with excitement. He jumped up and hugged Juliet, his mother, Rosa. He sat down and thanked the god he did not believe in. Then he put his face in his hands and sobbed. When he had composed himself, they phoned Mike again and then Audrey, and this time it was Charlie who had the privilege of recounting the story.
By morning, Whiskey had moved several more times. Each time, there were four witnesses, and though she saw none of the movements herself, the night nurse was convinced enough to record the movements on Whiskey’s chart.
The doctor came first thing the next morning. She frowned as she read the chart, checked Whiskey’s monitor.
“Did you open his eyes this morning?”
“He opened them himself,” Rosa said.
“What do you think, Dr. Marinovich?” Charlie’s mother asked anxiously.
The doctor smiled unexpectedly. “Call me Sanja.” She looked at Whiskey. “It certainly sounds very positive,” she said, still smiling. “We’ll need to send William for tests to find out more, but at this stage the signs are very good.”
After she left, Magdalena came into the room. She’d been on shift for two hours, and though she was trying to be matter-of-fact, Charlie knew that she too was excited about the change in Whiskey’s condition.
“I know you feel like celebrating,” she said, “but you should all go home and get some rest.”
“I couldn’t possibly sleep!” Rosa exclaimed.
“Take a tablet if you have to,” Magdalena said sternly. “Whiskey will be gone for tests for most of the day, so you won’t miss anything, I promise you. I don’t want to see any of you back here before four, okay?”
“Will you make sure she sleeps?” Magdalena asked Charlie’s mother.
Elaine nodded. “I think I’ll need a tablet myself,” she said. “I’m wound up like a spring.”
x x x
When Whiskey was first admitted to the hospital, all those months before, it had seemed to Charlie that he had undergone virtually every test known to medical science. They had rolled him in and out of the X-ray machines so many times, Charlie had feared that if the accident itself hadn’t permanently damaged Whiskey’s brain, the amount of radiation flooding his head would finish the job. But once Whiskey’s condition had stabilized, all the testing had stopped.
As soon as Whiskey started to move, it was like the beginning all over again. When Charlie and Juliet returned to the hospital later that afternoon, Whiskey was in the X-ray suite. Mike was outside, watching through a glass panel. He had been at the hospital all day while the others caught up on sleep, sitting with Whiskey between tests.
“Any news?” Charlie asked him.
“Nothing yet. They say they won’t know until they look at the results of all the tests together, and compare them against the earlier ones. But he’s still moving.”
“You’ve seen it?” Juliet asked excitedly.
“No. But the nurses told me they’ve had to retake some of the X-rays because of the movement.”
“Where are the girls?” Juliet asked.
“I arranged for them to stay at a friend’s place.”
“So you can stay tonight?”
“You bet. I’m hoping to be here when he comes around. That’s what I came all this way for in the first place—to meet this guy. And you, of course,” he added, grinning at Charlie.
Charlie grinned back. “Where are Mum and Rosa?” he asked. “Not still sleeping?”
“Hardly. They’ve been back an hour or so. They got a ticking off from Magdalena, I believe.” Mike laughed. “They’re at the café now—they didn’t want to watch the tests.”
Charlie nodded. Some of the X-ray machines had tiny chambers into which Whiskey had to be rolled on a gurney, and Rosa, who was claustrophobic, couldn’t stand to watch.
“What are they doing now?” Juliet asked, looking through the window.
“I think they said an EEG. It doesn’t look too pleasant.”
“It’s just recording his brain waves,” Charlie reassured Mike. “What other tests have they done?”
“I don’t know all the names,” Mike said. “They did one where they injected dye into his blood. They said it would help them distinguish damaged tissue from healthy tissue.”
Charlie tried to recall what he had learned about the tests immediately after the accident. “A CT?” he asked.
Mike frowned. “That doesn’t sound right. It was something magnetic.”
“Magnetic resonance imaging?”
“MRI, that’s the one,” Mike said.
“How many more to go?”
“This is the last one for today.”
“Looks like they’re finishing up,” Juliet said.
The three of them watched in silence as the electrodes were unplugged, the paste cleaned from Whiskey’s scalp. As the orderly wheeled Whiskey out, Charlie noticed his eyes were closed.
“Have they given him something to make him sleep?” he asked, alarmed.
“Not that I know of,” the orderly said.
“Is it normal for him to be asleep after all that?”
“You’d have to ask the doctor,” the orderly said apologetically.
Charlie watched tensely as Whiskey was wheeled away.
Juliet put her arm around him. Mike knocked on the window to attract someone’s attention.
A nurse came out to see them.
“Did everything go okay?” Charlie asked her.
“I’m afraid we won’t have the results until tomorrow.”
“I don’t mean that,” Charlie said. “Whiskey looks really out of it.”
“We wondered if you might have given him something to make him sleep,” Mike added.
“He’s probably worn out after all the testing,” the nurse said.
“Surely he wouldn’t be able to sleep with you poking around at his head like that,” Charlie said.
“There’s no discomfort to the patient when the electrodes are removed,” the nurse said reassuringly. “The testing can be very tiring for patients, even if they seem unaware of what’s going on. It’s nothing to worry about.”
“He looked shocking,” Charlie snapped. “Don’t tell me it’s nothing to worry about.”
Mike put his hand on Charlie’s shoulder. “This is a very tense time for us,” he said to the nurse, “and we’re a little uneasy about the way Whiskey looked.”
“I’ll ask Dr. Chang to come out.” They watched through the window of the suite as she spoke to him, waited while the doctor carefully washed and dried his hands.
“Why don’t you let me do the talking?” Mike said to Charlie.
Charlie nodded. He didn’t want to make another scene, have a counselor called.
The doctor finally emerged, shook hands with each of them. “Emma tells me you’re concerned abou
t William.”
“We are a little,” Mike said. “The thing is, for quite a few months now, he’s had his eyes open, except at night, when we’ve closed them, so it was unexpected to see his eyes closed. And we’re certainly not trying to tell you how to do your job, it’s just that we know you don’t see Whiskey every day like we do, so you might not know it’s not normal for him to have his eyes closed.”
“Is there a chance that the tests you’ve done could have caused him to regress?” Juliet asked.
The doctor shook his head. “I understand your concern,” he said, “but there’s nothing we’ve done that would affect William’s condition, either positively or negatively. It’s absolutely normal for a patient in William’s state to sleep deeply after a day of testing. In fact, it’s a good sign, because a return of sleeping and waking cycles is an indicator of coma arousal.”
“Are you quite sure that’s all it would be?” Mike pressed him.
“Whiskey’s been monitored all day, as normal,” the doctor said patiently, “but if you like, I can call across and have the ward nurses double-check everything.”
“We’d appreciate that,” Mike said, shaking hands with the doctor again.
Charlie felt ashamed of his outburst. He remembered how Mike’s arrival in Melbourne had felt like the last straw. Now he wondered how he would have gotten through the long months since Whiskey’s accident without him.
x x x
Though it had not yet been confirmed in any official medical sense, once Whiskey began to show signs of emerging from his coma, Charlie’s mother had suggested they set some ground rules that might help Whiskey in his transition back to consciousness. Charlie suspected the suggestions had come from Victor, whom he knew she still saw, but the ideas seemed sensible, so he did not question them.
The first suggestion was that Whiskey should never be left alone, that there should always be at least one member of the family sitting with him. This suggestion was based on the assumption that Whiskey would recognize his mother, his brother, his wife: of course, they all knew Whiskey’s brain may have been damaged in such a way that he might not recognize any of them. But to know this, theoretically, was different to behaving as though it might be a reality. So they had all agreed to this first suggestion. It made sense to every one of them that seeing a familiar face might alleviate Whiskey’s distress at being confronted with so much that was unfamiliar. But it did raise the issue of what to do about Mike.
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