by Rio Youers
“Do you think it’s the right course of action, Yvette?” Mom looked at her again. Too many tears to read her expression. Was she hoping Yvette would concur, like Harvey Dent, or disapprove?
I willed her, once again, to say what was on her mind.
To save me.
“It’s not my decision,” she replied.
“But you can advise,” Mom pushed. “That’s part of your job description.”
“I haven’t been working with Westlake long enough to form a professional opinion,” Yvette said firmly. “Anything I offer would be unfair, based on intuition rather than medical fact. This matter is between the family and the physician.”
Mom nodded and lowered her head.
Every bleak emotion you can think of crowded in on me. My essence—my life force—should have burned them, but they were like kryptonite, and they bested me. My soul dimmed. A terrifying feeling. I had always been golden. A vapour. But at that moment, I felt so leaden I was sure Mom and Yvette would hear me clanking through the room. A breeze made of chains. More than anything, I felt betrayed. Too hurt to see any love in their actions. I drooped toward my body, but paused when Mom asked:
“Will you do it, Yvette? Will you remove the tube?”
She’d say no, I was sure of it. Leave it to Harvey Dent. This matter was between the family and the physician, after all. Besides, the whole cracked window thing may have been intuition, but our connection was not. She’d touched my trophies. I’d inhaled the fragrance of her hair, and thought—for a moment that seemed heavenly now, and painfully distant—that she was going to kiss me. Then there was all the time I’d spent with her, wrapped close and healing, wanting to protect her from Wayne. Sure, our connection was intangible, illogical, but it was real. No way she’d disconnect my feeding tube. That’d be like pulling the trigger on a gun with excruciatingly slow action.
No way.
I paused. Heavy. Grey.
“Yes,” Yvette said. “I can do it.”
Is everything a lie? Is any of this really happening? When the things you know and trust break down, when they crumble to dust, reality itself becomes vague. Think of it this way: if you were to look out the window now and see a griffin land in your garden, you wouldn’t just question the existence of the griffin . . . you’d question all things. Including yourself.
Are you out there? Are you real?
Will you wake up when you die?
Something so ponderous and weighty should cast a shadow, but the sun passed clean through me as I crawled across the garden toward Hub. It occurred to me then—and it has haunted me since—how stupid I had been not to recognize the signs . . . how blind. My mind caught fire. Buildings burned and toppled with train-wreck sounds. Smoke jumped up in coral shapes. All of this fuelled by Dr. Quietus’s voice: It’s the end of the world, Westlake. The taste of ashes and loss. My lungs blackened by the truth: It’s all too easy. All the hard work is being done for me. Can’t you see that?
I threw myself next to Hub but he didn’t feel me and kept on whining. Nothing I could do to comfort him. Nothing I could say. Too many broken pieces. I waited for the smoke to clear—and it did, eventually, although it revealed nothing but ruin. But I could breathe again. It was a start. And then think again . . . if I’ve ever been able to think at all.
I could contemplate my pain. My despondency.
I had never doubted my parents’ faith. I’d assumed it was eternal. And I had never doubted my ability to reward that faith by breaking out of my prison. Beginning with a single, intelligible word. Or smiling on command. Or feeling Mom’s hand in mine and squeezing her fingers. Small, yet momentous, steps on the road to recovery. It’s all different now, though. The only thing I’m certain of is that Dr. Quietus is bigger and badder than ever. He’s closer, too. When Yvette removes my feeding tube, my life expectancy will be down to days. Maybe a couple of weeks, if I’m lucky.
Or unlucky, depending on how you look at it.
Either way, doesn’t give me much time to “contemplate” a way out.
I need to get smart, baby.
Clock is ticking.
15. Long Fall.
Today is Tuesday, September 20, 2011. It has been a hot summer, but the nights are getting cooler and the leaves are beginning to turn—the merest threads of gold and red, caught only in a certain light. I may see them turn fully, but I doubt I’ll see them fall. And I certainly won’t see them bud and bloom anew.
My parents have finished their mental preparation. They are ready.
Yvette will remove my tube on Thursday.
I’ve flown all over the world for surfing tournaments. I didn’t mind flying, although I always experienced a jolt of anxiety. I’d look at the fuselage as I boarded the plane and imagine a fragment of it—painted with the airline’s colours—smouldering in a field somewhere, surrounded by blistered seats, oddments of luggage, and something that looks like the partial ribcage of a blue whale. I’d see it in my mind with the CNN Breaking News ticker scrolling along the bottom, or as the front page of The New York Times, adorned with some tragic headline. (All of this from a glimpse of the fuselage as I boarded, and that’s what comes of having a vivid imagination.) It wasn’t this fabricated news scene, or the thought of the crash itself—of dying—that unsettled me . . . but rather the thought of the time it would take for the plane to slam down to earth. Three minutes—or however long—of knowing you are about to die, of hearing the screams of the people around you, complete strangers, who know the same. A different timbre of scream. Harrowing. Pushed out on final breaths.
That’s what unsettled me.
The time.
And that’s what I’m experiencing now. My plane has lost all four engines and I’m nosediving toward my doom. I used to think that three minutes was a terrifyingly long time to know that you’re about to die, but it’s nothing—positively heaven—compared to one whole week. Or two.
Screaming all the way.
I won’t give up, though. It’ll get harder as I get weaker, but I flat-out fucking refuse to give up. Same as always . . . Dr. Quietus is going to have a fight on his hands.
For now, though, I need to release. Not to the ocean, or anywhere loud and full of power, but somewhere serene and distant. The moon, perhaps, where I can float above the maria with tears in my eyes, and prepare myself for the long fall.
Maybe I’ll stay there. Never come down.
Look up. Can you see me?
I am the man in the moon. Pale and alone.
II
FALLIN’
16. Resolve.
Somebody somewhere is writing this down. This I know; I’m a living (at the moment), breathing (again, at the moment) genius. I am relaying information through his or her creative window. A frailty in the wall. So let’s dispel any doubts about my superhero abilities. This shiznit is really happening. You may or may not believe me, and that’s fine. But somewhere not very far away from you, somebody exists in a vegetative state; in a coma; in locked-in syndrome. By the time you have finished reading this paragraph, ventilators will have been switched off; feeding tubes disconnected; lives shut down.
This is really happening.
Right now.
So consider me (if it’s easier) a voice on the wind. A thousand voices. An orchestra. And next time you see a severely disabled person—in a wheelchair, a hospital bed, even on TV—maybe it’ll be my voice you hear. I represent the Great Unspoken, the Silent Undead. You’d better believe that makes me a superhero.
Yvette arrives at 10:30 AM tomorrow to remove my feeding tube. Eighteen hours and six minutes until my life support is discontinued. Although, in a way, it already has been; I had only two feedings yesterday, only one so far today. It’s like my parents have mentally disconnected the tube. Maybe they don’t see the point in feeding me. Or are gradually adjusting to the concept of not having to. I can understand that, I guess. Just wish my empty stomach would stop cramping. The pain is something I’ll have to get used to, and it will only ge
t worse. But to suffer it before my tube is removed seems an unnecessary cruelty. Like having your thumbs screwed prior to being strapped into the electric chair.
I haven’t released since returning from the moon. As tempting as it has been to escape, I have concentrated as much time and energy as possible on healing—scars both physical and mental. The Many Worlds Interpretation is a bust. I am a whole human being, flesh and bone, with a twenty-three-year history. Finding a relative branch point is one thing, but accessing it on a quantum level is quite another. I would have greater success with the Many Minds Interpretation, a theory that suggests a perpetuity of worlds within one psyche. Though potentially accessible, it is sadly impractical—fuelled as it is by a singular physicality (me, in other words). And when I die, all worlds collapse.
Besides, it’s just another form of escape . . . delusion.
Ultimately, the only way out is to repair my body. My cracked window. This won’t be any easier than finding a doorway to an alternate reality, but it’s real, at least—not based on theory. It’s all I’ve got.
I’m no stranger to the desolate streets of the motor cortex. I have walked them many times, calling out for help, trying to force my way into buildings with locked doors and boarded-over windows. It’s like being a character in a science fiction novel. The Last Man on Earth. A plague has wiped out the rest of mankind, and now—forlorn, shocked, smeared with grime and wearing a torn shirt—I must rebuild. Reading those novels, there’s always another survivor that the protagonist eventually encounters, and has to decide whether or not to trust. Or there’s a military-run safe haven several hundred miles in the wrong direction that he or she found out about via a fuzzy radio transmission. A vestige of hope. I would give anything for that right now, but the motor cortex truly is deserted. I have gone from aimless wandering to exploring—ransacking. How many doors do I have to knock down to blink? How high do I have to climb to smile? I have pitched my shovel into this barren earth and turned over nothing but soil and flint. How deep are the flexed muscles, the raised eyebrows? When the blade strikes wood, will I have discovered a chest brimming with treasure? (Just imagine: to brush my own hair; to dress myself; to walk.) Or will it be the lid of my coffin?
Today I spent six hours trying to twitch my ring finger. On the outside I didn’t even break a sweat. Inside I screamed, standing naked in the motor cortex, praying for a breeze to stir the dead leaves, or a few drops of rain to moisten the ground. You want to know what that’s like? Okay, do this: place your hand flat on a table with your middle finger curled into your palm. Now move your thumb. Easy, huh? Now move your index finger. No problem. Your pinky. Again, easy. Now move your ring finger . . .
Not so simple, right?
Do that for six hours with stomach cramps crippling your lower body, and the knowledge that if you don’t move your ring finger, you’re going to die.
Yeah. That’s what it’s like.
All four engines in flames, but I’m not giving up. And I’m focused now. Absolutely. Death is a powerful motivator. It’s not like I didn’t try to find a way out before. I did—often, and earnestly. But I always had time on my side, and was distracted too easily. I’d start chatting to Hub or release somewhere bright, go play with infant gorillas, read over Cormac McCarthy’s shoulder. This “deadline” has changed the game. The incentive I needed. If I can’t recover now, perhaps I never would have.
Westlake wouldn’t want to live like this, Mom had said, and she was right on the money. Moms know best, after all. Tell me I’m going to be like this forever, and I’ll tell you to put a fucking bullet in my head. Faith has kept me going, and now it’s—literally—do or die time.
I’ve made my peace with that.
My jaunt to the moon was valuable. A silent and vast plain where I did nothing but think. I gained perspective. Bitterness and despondency slipped away, replaced by a cool cube of resolve. I assessed my situation from my parents’ point of view and asked the question, What would I do? Disturbingly, I didn’t have to think about it for long. To imagine a loved one in such an enfeebled state was profoundly upsetting. Would what I do? I’d flick the switch, too. No doubt about it.
Thus, I have decided not to even try to divert their course of action. I’d considered swimming through the soup of their thoughts, hoping to breach the protection of their conscious minds, if only to buy myself some time. I could fly a banner through their dreams and hope they would remember it on waking, and that they wouldn’t dismiss it as some residue of guilt. But the deadline has become precious. Ominous and terrible, yes . . . but needed. It may be the only thing that gets me out of this prison. A scythe-shaped key.
17. We Are Family.
Nine hours, thirty-one minutes.
Everything is silent. After all the tears, the house is finally sleeping. I’m wide awake, though, and filled with glassy pain. I hope it abates; the motor cortex is waiting and the clock goes tick-tock. I need to get to work.
But first (and briefly), reflection . . .
Tonight was difficult, but beautiful. So much love for Westlake Soul, but eerily like attending my own funeral. I was fed (probably for the final time) by Mom. She worked quickly, and with noted distraction. It’s okay, Mom, I said to her. Don’t be sad. I understand. Her hands trembled. She spilled formula on my sheets. Mopped it away with the towel, leaving a small stain. She poured the rest into the syringe, her brow furrowed. The tan liquid flowed into my stomach and I thought about prisoners on death row, how they get whatever they want for their last meal. Steak, lobster, prime rib—although most choose junk food, and who can blame them for that? I had wondered if Mom would liquefy a couple of rump steaks, French fries, maybe throw in a few onion rings. Pour that into my stomach and flush with an ice-cold Budweiser. Didn’t happen, though. No death row treatment for this kid. Only thing on the menu was Jevity 1.2 Cal. The same as always. Still, I wouldn’t have tasted the liquefied steaks, anyway. No big loss.
The difficult, beautiful moment came an hour or so after my feeding. Dad came in and lifted me into my chair. I groaned and dribbled. He wiped my chin, stroked my face, folded a warm blanket over my legs. Mom and Niki were in the living room, sitting quietly. The TV was off. Kind of rare for this time on a Wednesday (or any) evening. They were missing Jeopardy. I deduced things were about to get serious.
My head flopped, hit the buffers and stopped. I groaned again.
“This is going to be a night with Westlake,” Dad said, parking my chair in the middle of the room before taking a seat next to Mom. They clasped each other’s hands and that was nice to see. “A night for Westlake. We don’t know how long we’re going to have—” And here he stopped and his face stiffened and Mom rubbed his back. “We don’t know how long Westlake has got, so we’re doing this tonight, as a family, united in our love for him, and with a wish that our beautiful son and brother finds everything he wants in the next life.”
Everybody was crying now—already, and things were only just getting started. Have to admit, I was crying, too. Impossible not to. I edged from my body to absorb their love, and felt it. A real and solid thing that I cradled. The tears in my eyes were too small to see, but they were there. And they were real, too.
Hub came in. Head low. Tail low. He saw everybody crying, then turned around and walked out. Hub hasn’t taken this well—hasn’t really been able to face me. He sleeps alone most nights, and gone are the days when he’ll jump onto my bed and rest his head on my legs.
I heard his paws clicking down the hallway. The sigh of his body as he sagged onto the floor at the foot of the stairs.
“So here’s what we’re going to do,” Dad continued, wiping his wet cheeks. “It won’t be easy, I know, but we’re going to watch a few home movies, then we’re going to share our favourite memories of Westlake while listening to some of his favourite songs. This is our tribute to him, and our way of showing how deeply he touched—” Dad’s words choked to a stop. His face stiffened again and he sobbed, hiding behin
d one forearm. A full forty seconds before he was able to speak again. “This is already harder than I thought it would be. Anyway, yes . . . our tribute to Westlake, to thank him for bringing us so much joy.” Now Dad looked at me. His throat worked as he tried to suppress the sobs. I wanted to fly out of my chair and hold him so tight. “We’ll never forget you, buddy,” he said. “You’ll always be a part of our family . . . our lives.”
Mom taught Niki how to fold her Kleenex while Dad selected a few home movies and pushed the first of them into the player. Within moments I was on TV. Baby Westlake. The date in the bottom right corner of the screen read, 04/03/88. Newborn. In Mom’s arms, my tiny head snuggled in the pillow of her elbow. Mom was teasing her pinky into my hand and I gripped it tight, my pudgy fingers dimpled, fingernails the size, and shape, of sesame seeds. Cut to Dad holding me, in his hippie days, with hair down to his shoulders and beads in his beard. He was crying on TV, too, but with joy this time. His amazing eyes shone. His hair then was the same colour as mine now. My scrunched little face pressed against his chest, content in the fierce glow of his sun.
We watched home movies for an hour and a half—a window on a world where only happiness existed. My first Christmas. First birthday. Three years old, my face covered with vanilla ice cream (you can hear Mom and Dad laughing their asses off in the background). Aged six, holding Niki for the first time (her tiny hand curled around my pinky). Three different Halloweens, dressed as a zombie, a vampire, an Oreo Cookie. Two vacations, one in Disney World (screaming at Goofy—the seven-foot-tall version, which still looks freaky, even today), the other camping in Algonquin Park (Dad pretending to be a bear, chasing his squealing, delighted children around a tree). Eight years old, playing soccer, my hair almost white in the sun. A little older, on a swing set behind Aunt Janey’s house. I kick my legs and soar, wanting to loop-the-loop—unafraid, even then. Me and Mom playing Twister, and I’m laughing because her ass is in my face. Fourteen years old, my first surfboard, Dad filming me as I tackle ankle busters at Cocoa Beach. Sixteen years old, play-wrestling Niki, giving her a noogie.