Angels Weep

by C. J. Lyons

  Little did she know that when you’re a patient, you only get asked these things once. Then it’s written onto your chart, passed on at report to other health care workers, becomes codified and certified and ratified into law.

  So ugly, baggy sweatpants that barely clung to her bony hips and needed rolling up at the ankles because she couldn’t cinch them tight at the waist without rubbing against her scars became Morgan’s daily uniform.

  Kristyn helped her brush her teeth and bathe. God, how Morgan had hated that at first. But now it was kind of nice to have someone get the water temperature just right and wash her hair for her. After, Kristyn barely had to help except to allow Morgan to lean against her arm to step into the pants and to tie the little ropes at the waist. Despite the pain in her ribs when she lifted her arms, Morgan managed the T-shirt all on her own, choosing a tie-dye one Micah had made for her. Kristyn nodded in approval—of course she did, all the nurses loved Micah, told Morgan how lucky she was, and his artwork plastered the walls not only over Morgan’s bed but also at the nurses’ station down the hall.

  She got into the wheelchair. To her surprise, Kristyn pushed her in the direction opposite the way they usually went. Water therapy? She hoped not—she despised her time in the pool with a passion.

  First, because they had to put her in a harness and lower her in with a medieval torture device they called a patient lift. It made her feel like a fish dangling from a hook, helpless and flailing. And second, since she couldn’t swim, even with the harness to keep her upright as she paced the underwater treadmill and tried to climb the practice steps, all she could think about was drowning.

  But Kristyn hadn’t changed Morgan into her swim shorts and tank top or placed the special protective dressing over the damn PEG. They passed the therapy wing, the scent of the chlorine tickling Morgan’s nose, taunting her with memories of the real ocean—all that freedom… When she left here, that would be her first stop, she vowed. A deserted beach where no one would bother her and she could figure out her life.

  They turned right, went through the front lobby, past the long aquarium with the colorful fish, and arrived at another patient ward. Kristyn hit the plate that opened the automatic door and wheeled Morgan inside. Like her old ward, this one featured a large bank of floor-to-ceiling windows along the far wall with planters of foliage—providing oxygen, vital to the brain’s recovery, Dr. Lazarus always said. The walls were a cheerful green and filled with patients’ artwork.

  “Surprise!” Kristyn said. “Your new home.”

  Morgan ignored her words, focusing instead on the five faces turned to stare at her. None of the beds had the restraining canopies of her old ward or any of the special air mattresses designed for patients with minimal mobility. The three boys and two girls, ranging in age from kindergarten to high school, were all out of their beds, sitting in chairs around a table, eating their breakfast. Only one required the special thick silverware Morgan had to use, and no one wore a towel as a bib.

  The oldest, a girl maybe a year or two older than Morgan, with Asian features and a shaved skull that still bore staples from recent surgery, raised an eyebrow at Morgan’s wheelchair. “Think you have the wrong ward, Kristyn,” she said in a voice clear of the tongue-thick garble that muddied Morgan’s words. “The retard ward is down the hall.”

  A few snickers from the two older boys. Even the little one laughed, but it came a beat too late; Morgan was certain he had no clue what he was laughing about. The other girl, a thin blonde with her hair pulled back in a braid, maybe ten or so, didn’t laugh but also didn’t smile. She was the one using the special spoon, although unlike Morgan, she had a fork to go with it.

  “Language, Tia. You know that word is unacceptable,” Kristyn scolded the girl. “Morgan, this is Tia, Theo, Nelson, Justin, and Maria. They’ve all made excellent progress, just like you have. You guys show her the ropes, okay? I’m going to fetch your stuff. Be right back.”

  As soon as the door shut behind Kristyn, Tia and the oldest boy, Theo, stood. “You really need that chair?” Tia asked.

  “Yeah, you a cripple? Spinal cord injury along with your TBI?” Theo pushed out his chest as if he had something to prove. He was maybe thirteen, and despite his bravado, Morgan sensed fear.

  Morgan wheeled herself to the empty bed, which occupied the same space that Honey’s had back in her old ward. She hoped that wasn’t a bad omen. Did she believe in omens? Maybe not, but still she couldn’t explain the chill that rippled over her arms, leaving her hair standing at attention and goose bumps in its wake. There was a vinyl recliner beside the bed. It took her two tries to lock the wheelchair, but she transferred into the recliner without falling on her ass, so she took that as a win.

  “Not a cripple.” Tia drew close, the others hanging back, watching. “TBI?” She paused, and when Morgan didn’t say anything, added, “That means traumatic brain injury. Like Theo and Justin. Me, I’ve got Rasmussen’s—missing half my brain. First it rotted from a virus and then the surgeons cut it out. So my TBI was planned. They left my speech centers okay, but now I get seizures all the time and I can’t use my right side very good. Better than Nelson, though.”

  She nodded to a black kid who looked to be around ten or eleven. Then she paused again. It seemed like she only stopped talking when she had to breathe, and wasn’t really interested in anyone’s response. “And yeah, I talk. A lot. Deal with it.”

  Morgan remained silent, still assessing this new threat.

  “Can’t you talk?” Tia asked. “Not that I care one way or the other, but just trying to see how much work you’re going to be. Around here everyone pitches in—we don’t have fancy aides to do everything for us. This is the independent living ward. It’s the best way to prepare for the real world, Dr. Lazarus says.”

  Another weird pause. Morgan realized they weren’t pauses in conversation—Tia’s entire body froze. Seizures. She was having seizures. Blanking out of the world. Then blinking back in as if nothing had happened.

  “Didn’t answer my question,” Tia snapped when she came to—it was almost a full minute this time. She met Morgan’s gaze with a sharp-edged glare, as if daring Morgan to make fun of her absent spell. “What got you here?”

  Morgan was still working on how to smile—it wasn’t easy, one more damn fine motor skill that went along with sucking and swallowing and talking that she hadn’t quite mastered. So she was pretty sure the smile she conjured was more of a monster grimace. Perfect.

  “I died,” she answered Tia. “Four times.”

  The others looked at each other, then stared at Morgan. Suddenly they all burst out laughing, even Maria, the girl in the chair who hadn’t yet made eye contact with Morgan. Not the response she’d been hoping for.

  “Think that makes you special?” Tia asked. She waved her hands to gesture past the room at the entire facility. “It doesn’t. We’ve all died. Everyone here’s died.”

  “Welcome to the party,” Theo sneered. “Better late than never.”

  “Four times?” Nelson said, edging forward. Even if the other kids weren’t impressed by the fact that Morgan had died and returned to life four times, the shared experience seemed to make them less wary. He was a chubby black kid with freckles and copperish hair. “She beat you, Tia.”

  Tia made a hrumphing noise. “Big deal. Nowhere close to Honey’s record.”

  Morgan jerked her chin up at Honey’s name. “Honey died before?”

  “Nine times,” Nelson said. Despite the fact that he appeared to be only eleven or so, he seemed to be the group’s statistician.

  Morgan was beginning to get a crude handle on the dynamics of her new roommates. Frustrating that it was taking so long; in the past, she could have sorted them out and catalogued their strengths and weaknesses before she even got past the door. Maria, the girl using the special spoon and whose eyes didn’t track the conversation, she was the one they protected, shielded with their bodies. The weak one. Justin, the youngest, m
aybe five or six years old, hung back but was imitating the older boys’ body language, a wannabe. Nelson, the brains of the outfit. Theo, the muscle. And Tia, the leader.

  Leaving Morgan to wonder where exactly she would fit into their dynamic. Right now, she was obviously the outsider, the encroacher…

  “Honey doesn’t count,” Tia argued. “It’s not like she’s ever fully woken up.”

  “She still died and came back,” Nelson said. Then he frowned and turned to Morgan. “Wait. You said before—but you didn’t know she’d already died.” Clearly he’d made the most progress in terms of cognitive functioning. Morgan wondered what his deficits were—she’d noted that he wobbled a bit despite using a four-legged cane. He also had a brace on one leg and another on his wrist. Maybe he was more physically impaired than mentally?

  “She did die,” Morgan said, after taking a moment to untease his question. “Last night.”

  “For real?” asked Justin, the little one.

  Morgan nodded.

  Tia and Theo exchanged looks. “What happened?”

  “They said a seizure.”

  Tia shook her head, the light reflecting from her bald scalp, and then lunged forward to loom over Morgan. Morgan pushed her glasses up, feeling vulnerable. Imagine her, hiding behind a pair of cheap sunglasses—used to be she was the one others hid from.

  “What really happened?” It was more a challenge than a question.

  Morgan looked away, hating herself for it. “I don’t know.”

  “But you were there,” Tia persisted. “Did you see or hear anything?”

  “Footsteps…” Morgan hesitated. How to describe what else she’d heard? She didn’t have a word for it, but it had made her entire body cringe and brought all her senses to high alert. Something that had accompanied the footsteps in the dark… something dangerous.

  “Whistling,” Theo said. “Did you hear whistling?”

  That was it! The sound she didn’t have a name for. The name sounded much too cheerful; didn’t fit the ominous noise that haunted her dreams.

  Another look between Tia and Theo, and then they both looked to Nelson. “The bogeyman,” he said, his shoulders slumping. “He strikes again.”

  Behind them, partially shielded by their bodies, Justin covered his face with his hands, while Maria dropped her spoon and began crying. Theo ran to her, threw his arms around her, and looking up at the others, scared.

  “You said he was gone,” he accused Tia. “You promised.”

  Chapter Eleven

  Jenna basked in the mid-morning April sunlight glaring off her computer screen. If she wanted to get any work done, she needed to close the blinds or move to a seat on the other side of the beat up farm table that filled most of the space of the loft’s dining room. Instead, she sat there, eyes closed, soaking in the warmth.

  She was dressed in yoga pants and a baggy sweatshirt, hair uncombed, still unshowered after getting home from Angels. She couldn’t stop thinking about the little girl who’d died, about what Morgan had said, about the way Lazarus maybe, kind of, smiled. A chill shook her, and she opened her eyes. Her laptop screen was filled with open tabs, each another child’s obituary. Six of them from the last year. All patients of Lazarus.

  The front door opened, and Andre spilled into the space, filling it, as always. He juggled his gym bag, two grocery sacks, and a binder from their office downstairs.

  “Hey, there. Get any sleep?” he asked, as he dumped the binder on the table across from her and pivoted into the kitchen. “Finished the Warner security review. Just need you to sign off on it. Checked the office and had Clarice clear our schedules for the meeting at Angels today.”

  For the past three and a half weeks, ever since word had gotten out of their involvement in recovering fugitive serial killer Clinton Caine, Galloway and Stone had been flooded with new clients. Unfortunately, their best operative had been lying in a coma, leaving them short staffed. They’d hired a receptionist to field the calls and gather initial information, and then divided the work as best they could in between visits to the hospital. Jenna had purposefully selected cases that could be dealt with remotely, using computers or phone calls—of course, she didn’t tell the clients how easily their security concerns were addressed—and the few that did require site visits, she and Andre divided between them.

  Despite being approached by several wealthy individuals with high-profile jobs—a search for a runaway mistress who’d stolen corporate secrets, a series of bomb threats, a break-in at a local jewelry wholesaler—Jenna had turned them down. Her mind was too cluttered to focus, and she would not risk the Galloway and Stone reputation by courting failure.

  At least, that’s what she told Andre. He saw through her fear, of course; understood her worry that without Morgan, maybe they couldn’t handle the tougher cases. That without Morgan, they’d lost their secret weapon that had brought them their early successes.

  He bustled out of the kitchen, placing a fresh cup of coffee beside her, and leaned over her shoulder to see what she was working on. “What’s this?”

  She slid the laptop over to him and told him about Honey’s death. He sank into the chair beside her, one hand seeking hers as the other clicked through the obituaries. After she finished, not certain if she’d adequately conveyed why Honey’s death felt so very wrong to both her and Morgan, he kept reading in silence. She waited. Andre was never quick to judge, one of the things she loved about him. Sunlight played off his various skin tones and the scars across his scalp. Some of his burn grafts had healed paler than his original dark walnut complexion, a few even appeared pinkish, as if they belonged on a baby. The scars between them wove across his scalp like mountain ridges on a globe, traveling down to his neck and over one side of his face.

  Andre used to wear a mask day and night, similar to the form-fitting long-sleeved shirt and pants that he wore year-round beneath his clothing. Made of special fabric designed to minimize the constant threat of scar tissue damaging his already ravaged skin, the compression garments were just one of many inconveniences he faced on a daily basis. There were also hours of stretching and physical therapy done twice a day; a constant worry about dehydration, since his damaged skin contained no sweat glands; medications to reduce inflammation in his scarred lungs; constant inspections to ensure no blisters or sores where his nerve endings had been burned away.

  Despite all this, he never complained, never gave up, never skipped a day because he was tired or too busy or just needed a break. Any time she asked why, he laughed and said things like, “Once a Marine, always a Marine,” as if joining the Marines had made him the way he was: unflinching, refusing to yield. She hated that he believed it. Hated that he couldn’t see that he was who he was long before he’d signed up to serve his country. That the reason he’d made such a good Marine was because of who he was, not who they tried to mold him into.

  Finally, he closed the laptop and leaned back. “Jenna,” he said with a sigh. Just that, just her name. It was enough.

  He didn’t believe Morgan. She waited for him to explain why. Another thing she’d learned from Andre—the value of silence.

  “You’ve never spent time as a patient in a hospital. You can’t understand the way those places, all that endless time, the boredom, the meds, the pain, they mess with your mind.”

  She’d once asked him how many surgeries he’d had. He’d joked at the time, said he’d stopped counting at fifty, but the haunted expression in his eyes matched what she saw there now. “You think she’s imagining things?”

  “When you go through something like what Morgan has, your brain, your mind, it has to…escape. Either that or go crazy. You’re lying there helpless, strangers’ hands on your body, sounds and smells and bright lights bombarding you, not knowing if it’s day or night… Seriously, they should just confine soldiers to an ICU for a week, it’s better than any SERE training.”

  The extreme survival training designed to prepare soldiers for enemy capture
: survive, evade, resist, escape.

  “What was it like?” She kept her voice low, quiet enough that he could gracefully pretend he hadn’t heard her. They never talked about his time in the hospital; it had all happened before they met.

  He closed his eyes for a long moment. Then opened them and met hers. “It’s like being a prisoner in your own body. You don’t know what’s real or what’s a dream or what’s memory. Usually a combination of all three is stampeding through your mind non-stop. And it’s all so vivid, more real than life itself, like being trapped in a never-ending nightmare. I know guys who woke after being sedated, and they were terrified of ever going to sleep again—said it was worse than the actual combat they’d survived.”

  “That’s terrible. I thought the drugs were meant to prevent all that.”

  “No. In fact, they make it worse. I don’t know. I don’t think it’s something doctors really think about when they’re so focused on keeping you alive. Anyway, I’m just saying, Morgan might not be the best judge of what’s going on around her. Not yet, anyway.”

  “Then how do you explain these kids dying? All at Angels, under Lazarus’s care?”

  “You’ve seen the patients there—none of those kids were healthy to start with. And you know as well as I do, Dr. Lazarus only takes the worst cases, the ones who have nowhere else to turn. I mean, any rehab unit that puts a patient like Morgan, as sick as she was, on their intermediate ward… Imagine how many kids there are worse off than she was.”

  “But still—”

  “Have you found anything to link the deaths? Other than the fact that they were patients at Angels?”