The Comatose

by Kate Myers

  “Sorry.” She reveals in a whisper.

  “It’s okay. How long was I out?”

  “Not too long. I brought you dinner.” She points to the small table beside me. There sits a sandwich, some chips, and a bottle of Gatorade. “Or, well, it’s more like lunch.”

  “Thanks,” I say, my stomach growling in response.

  She comes around the bed and with her back against the wall, slides down to a sitting position on the floor.

  “You all right?” I ask, mouth full of what seems to be a turkey and cheese sandwich. Actual chunks of sliced turkey, not that stuff you get in the deli. Dad freezes everything; he must have saved leftovers from Thanksgiving or something.

  “Can I tell you something?” she says, staring at me.

  I wipe my mouth. “Yeah, of course.” I position myself in her direction.

  “I overheard Alex and your dad talking.”

  “Okay…” I say when she doesn’t say anything else.

  “Listen, I don’t want to start trouble or, like, stir drama or anything, but Alex is very adamant on this whole resistance thing.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I just can’t help but feel like he’s becoming impatient with the whole situation here.” She motions toward Skylar.

  “What makes you say that?”

  “Well, he literally said so. He said I’m getting impatient with the situation.”

  “Wow.”

  “Right? I mean, I feel like we’re making progress. And clearly, your dad isn’t leaving without you, and you’re not leaving without Skylar, so I don’t really know what the guy expects.”

  “Exactly. Did you hear anything else?”

  “Please don’t freak out on me with what I’m about to tell you.”

  My heart skips a beat. I swallow down the immediate urge to panic, and somehow, with a calm demeanor, say, “Okay.”

  I must have been convincing because she decides to speak. “He, I mean, your dad, he thinks you may have an outlier. He wants to do more testing, as he said, but I think he’s really onto something. Some of the stuff that we’ve discussed and hypothesized actually makes sense, and we need another body to figure it out.”

  And then it hits me. We have a comatose, a deranged, now we need a mind-controlled. Another question floats to the surface—are there other strains?

  “What else aren’t you telling me?” I ask, unable to resist the feeling that she’s not telling me everything.

  “I want to be completely honest and transparent with you, Max, I really do. But there’s just some stuff that I think you’d freak out about. And then there’s the stuff that isn’t even solid, so like why bring it up, ya know?”

  “I guess,” I say, picking at an imaginary piece of lint. “I’m sorry that I react like an idiot sometimes.” I meet her eyes. “I’m really freaking out inside. I’ve finally found something—someone—worth fighting for, and I’m scared, I’m really, really scared. I’ve known Skylar my entire life, she was my best friend growing up, and then life took her away from me. I finally got her back and I can’t let it happen again.”

  Quinn reaches across and puts her hand on top of mine.

  Only then do I realize that I had pulled apart a frayed section of my pant leg.

  “I understand,” she concedes.

  “I don’t even care if she doesn’t want to be with me, you know. I just can’t lose her again. I’ll be whatever she needs me to be.”

  “I understand,” she repeats herself.

  I’m reminded of what Sanchez said to me in the kitchen, how we’re all going through something. It makes me feel like a selfish idiot. Quinn would probably rather be in my position, holding on to some shred of hope instead of the fate she was dealt with Cynthia.

  “I’m sorry, Quinn. I know you’re going through this, too. We’re all dealing with things. I hope you know I’m grateful you’re here, don’t forget that.”

  “Max,” she says, blinking away the tears forming in her eyes. “He thinks your blood might be able to help her.”

  My eyes go wide; my heart seems to thud its way out of my chest. I’m left speechless but find myself on my feet immediately.

  “I…I—ugh…” I stutter, frantically looking around in an attempt to figure out what to do.

  “Please, you can’t freak out. You can’t even say anything,” she begs.

  “You expect me to not say anything?” I say, my hands to my face, desperately trying to rub sense into myself.

  “We don’t know for sure, you have to let him finish his testing. Please, he’s going to be so mad at me for telling you. He knew you would react this way, I tried to reason with him, but he insisted. Please don’t prove him right. Breathe, Max, breathe.”

  21

  Max

  I find myself pacing the room. “How do you even know?”

  “I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it over and over, your dad, the dude really is a genius.”

  I stop dead in my tracks, look Quinn in the eye, and with the most serious stare I can manage, tell her, “I will walk right out this door. I will go find him. And I will prove him right.”

  She puts her hands up. “Okay, Okay, chill. I don’t know all the details, all right? Calm down, please. I only know that he was doing some type of testing, your blood and hers, and when mixed together, there was some type of reaction.”

  “What do you mean, reaction? What does that even mean?”

  “He got some crazy hunch, because yours didn’t really match anyone else’s, so he started testing it against the others. When yours and Skylar’s were combined, the virus antibodies were reduced.”

  I don’t say anything for a moment, forcing myself to process and try to understand what she’s saying, what her words mean. And then it clicks. She’s saying I can save Skylar, that my blood can save her.

  I turn abruptly, ready to burst out the door when Quinn grabs me.

  “Stop, you have to stop!”

  “Why? Why are you so desperate to keep this a secret?”

  “Max, your dad wants to tell you himself, but not until he has something more concrete. I shouldn’t have even said anything. It’s probably some random fluke.”

  “How could this be a fluke?” I demand and plead for the universe to not be so cruel.

  “He tested your blood with the deranged man’s, and there was no reaction.”

  “Maybe…maybe he just didn’t test it right. Maybe it doesn’t work for him or something. Oh god.” I fall sluggishly into the wall. “Why did you even say anything?”

  “Listen, don’t blame me, I’m trying to help you. I’m trying to keep you in the know. Your dad will figure something out, you have to give him some time. He’s working harder than you think, day and night, desperate to figure something out.”

  “Yeah,” is all I can manage to say. I close my eyes, head falling down in defeat. “I have to do something, I can’t let her die,” I say, almost in a whisper.

  “I know,” Quinn assures. “We need a little more time.”

  “Max.” Dad startles me back to reality.

  I glance up. His face is drained, lacking its normal beige tones, and he’s clearly in need of a shower, or maybe a full twenty-four hours of sleep.

  “Yeah?”

  “Can you come with me for a minute, I have some questions?” he asks, not fatherly but perhaps doctorly.

  I get up without question and follow him to the door but stop short and turn.

  Quinn somehow reads my mind, following with, “I’ll look after her,” and walks over to Skylar’s bedside. “I need to do a check of her vitals anyway.”

  I can’t seem to bring myself to say anything to him, knowing how much it would disappoint Quinn, considering how much she begged me not to. Instead, I try to telepathically force him into telling me.

  He walks me into his office and closes the door behind me. The room smells sour, almost like vinegar, mixed with iron. The far wall, typically lined with shelves of books
and neatly placed trinkets, has been cleared off, and a makeshift laboratory has taken its place. A mini-fridge that was once full of my mom’s wine, is now plugged in on the floor within feet of the lab. I scan the room and find my gaze falling on Dad, his hands pressed together, pondering something uncomfortable.

  “I need to ask you a series of questions, and I want complete honesty, okay?” His serious tone and deadening eyes bore into me.

  A fear bubbling up I was unaware I was capable of.

  I nod, scared of what’s to come.

  “You and Jules…” he begins.

  My mind does a double and triple take on his words. Why is he bringing up Jules? I lean forward a bit, in anticipation for the words to follow, completely and utterly confused. His gaze traces the floor, then moves awkwardly to meet mine.

  “You were careful, right?”

  The way he enunciates careful makes me realize why he’s so uncomfortable.

  “Gross, Dad, what the hell?”

  His face remains the same, stern but uncomfortable. “Just answer the question, please.”

  “Yes, I mean, no, it wasn’t, ugh…necessary. Next question, please.”

  He looks at me, studying my response and the space in between, deciding whether or not to accept my answer.

  I cock my head a little to the side, silently asking him for the next question.

  “Any drug use?”

  “Dad, seriously?”

  “Yes, I am very serious,” he echoes, straight-faced. “These questions are painfully as awkward for me as they are for you, but I need to know the answers.”

  “Okay, fine, sorry. No, no drug use.”

  “None? Not weed, pills, anything with a needle?” he asks in more detail.

  “Only those pain pills you gave me,” I say defensively.

  “And that’s it?” he questions fiercely.

  “Yes, Dad, I swear. No drugs, I don’t even drink. That was Jake who stole your scotch, not me,” I say all at once, trying to make him understand.

  “Okay.” He rubs his chin. “And you’re a relatively healthy young man.” He pauses for a second. “How are you feeling? Any flu-like symptoms, allergies or fever?” He takes a step forward, putting the back of his hand on my forehead. He reaches down and puts his hand around my wrist, turning it over and placing two fingers to find my pulse; he finds the clock across the room and stares blankly.

  I remind myself not to hold my breath, waiting for him to finish.

  “I feel fine. Are you going to tell me what this is all about?” I pry but try not to come across overbearing.

  He chews at the inside of his lip, and it’s almost as if I can see the wheels turning in his head, connecting pieces to a puzzle no one can see, solving problem after problem, what he does best.

  “I need some more blood samples, from everyone, and I need to make sure of certain things before taking any unnecessary risks.” He’s lying.

  Even if Quinn hadn’t told me the truth, I would be able to tell through this lie. That whole, father/son thing we have. We’ve lived on our own long enough to be able to pick up these cues from each other, which is probably why he believed my responses about Jules and drugs.

  “Okay.” I allow him to think he fooled me. “Whatever you need.” I take a step toward the lab area. “Should we do it now?”

  “Yeah, good idea to get it out of the way now. Thanks for being understanding. I think I’m making some progress, I just need bigger samples to work with.” Lies on lies. Well, part of it. What he is saying is true, just not in the way he’s implying.

  “Of course, whatever I can do to help.”

  He motions for me to take a seat, and I comply.

  “What type of progress are you making?” I ask, hoping for something that resembles the truth.

  “You know me, not a big teller until I have something solid.”

  He fakes a smile, and even though he may be telling the truth, I know he’s withholding something.

  Tension, radiating the space between us, sets my nerves all the more on edge when he brings the supplies and places them on the small table beside me. I find a picture to occupy my attention in the far corner, a beautiful x-ray flower. The petals are gorgeously translucent, in various shades of purple, and the stem, a deep forest green, both perfectly laced together—clearly a piece of artwork chosen by my mom. Glancing around, I see that the picture is really the only thing of much color in the office. Everything else is either shades of white and gray, or wood tones.

  “Going to take a few extra of these this time.” He waves an empty vial in front of my face for me to see.

  It pains me to think of her—my mom—but it pains me, even more, to think about all the time that has passed since she’s been gone, how life managed to continue after her absence. How this world didn’t deserve her, but how desperately empty life is without her.

  “Hey, hold this right here for me, will you?”

  I reach down and hold the contraption in place, an empty vial filling with my blood. He runs to a cabinet in the corner of his office. He opens the small door, and I look down to see a few of the vials he had taken of my blood, and before I can even process what I’m doing, I glance quickly to him and seize the opportunity to snatch one and put it in my pocket.

  “Shit,” I exclaim, biting my lip to keep quiet. In the midst of me stealing a vial of my own blood, I had let go of the device drawing my blood. The needle moved and jammed itself painfully in a weird position.

  Dad jerks his head around quickly, slamming shut the cabinet door as he comes to my aid. “And that right there is why Max Sinclair will not be a doctor,” he laughs, seemingly unaware of the missing vial.

  Within seconds, he’s removed the device and secured a cotton ball with the medical tape he took from the cabinet.

  “Need anything else?” I ask.

  “Not right now, buddy. Thanks.” He clutches my shoulder and gives it a firm squeeze. “You doing okay?” And somehow, the lying, misleading man has been replaced with my father and finds a home inside me.

  “Yeah, I’m all right,” I lie.

  “Go check on Quinn. We’ll talk in a little bit, okay?”

  And with that, I’m on the other side of his office door, standing in the hallway, hand wrapped around the warm vial in my pocket, unsure of what I’m doing next, but knowing I have to do something, anything.

  22

  Max

  When I reach the doorway to my room, I quickly dart inside.

  “Oh god, you scared me. I didn’t think you’d still be here,” I stutter.

  She eyes me suspiciously. “You know, guilty people scare easily.”

  I blankly stare at her, the temperature of my body rising. She knows I’ve done something, but how?

  “So…?” she says, in anticipation for my response.

  I swallow hard, fumbling on the vial in my pocket. If I tell her, she can help me figure out what to do with it, how to use it, how to help her.

  “I, ugh—” I trail off, not able to form a sentence. Just tell her, you idiot.

  She sighs heavily. “Is he super pissed at me?”

  Her response catches me off guard. “What?” I ask reflexively.

  “What is wrong with you? You told your dad, right? You told him what I told you?” And that’s the moment I realize that she has no idea what’s in my pocket, she’s just worried I told him.

  I shake my head, probably too much. “No, no, no, I didn’t say anything.”

  She squints and tilts her head. “You didn’t?”

  “No.” I shake my head again.

  “Then why are you being so strange?” she asks.

  Shit. Hurry up and think of a cover.

  “He, ugh, he drew my blood. You know how I get with needles.” Smooth one.

  “Oh, right, yeah, that makes sense.” She glares at me like she’s pondering my response. “Okay.” She stands from the chair, wiping her hands on her legs, and walks toward me, on her way to the door. �
�You,” she pokes me in the chest, “are being weirder than normal.”

  I offer a fake smile. “I’m just tired, I think.”

  “Uh-huh, whatever.” She takes her leave.

  I shut the door quietly, leaving only a small crack, and tiptoe closer to the bed, feeling almost as if I’m not meant to be in here.

  I sit on the bed and let out a heavy exhale, allowing my shoulders to slump. I take my hand away from the vial in my pocket and rub my fingers into my forehead. I have to weigh my options. What even are my options? I really don’t know what I’m doing. But I know that my blood could possibly help her. I know that a tiny bit of my blood, mixed with a tiny bit of her blood, somehow reacted together. Something about antibodies.

  Maybe if I got this vial of blood inside her, it could do the same thing. But how do I do that? I shift my weight and glare at the contraptions attached to Skylar.

  “Oh, you poor sweet girl,” I say. “You don’t deserve this.”

  The small tube feeding her the nutrients she needs to survive, trails from her nose, taped to the side of her cheek. An IV hooked to her arm is attached to fluids that I assume are keeping her hydrated.

  My mind wanders to what my dad had asked Quinn, intra-something or intra-muscular. He was talking about how she injected the man with the sedative. When she answered intra-something, he had given her an attagirl, meaning that was the preferred way of injection. I’m fairly certain what they meant was either in a vein or a random injection. I can’t imagine that injecting this blood right into Skylar would be effective, so I have to figure out how to get it directly into a vein.

  I look to the IV attached to her arm. I guess I could take off the attached lines and use that, but it seems complicated, and I don’t really know how I would attach the vial. Not to mention, I don’t know what’s in the IV, and I don’t want to take away any vital nutrient or life support.

  Quinn’s backpack catches my attention, tucked partially under the bed near my feet. I lean over, tug it out, and right on top in sealed packaging is a brand-new syringe. My heart skips a beat, and after a quick glance over my shoulder, I grab the package and put it in my pocket with the vial.