Ghost Code
Sarah Negovetich
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www.SarahNegovetich.com
Copyright © Sarah Negovetich 2017
All rights reserved
The text of this book was set in Garamon 12pt. and More Perfect DOS VGA 20pt.
Cover design by Angela Haddon
For Christi, for being an awesome partner, a kick-butt friend, and a swift foot to the seat of my pants when I need it most.
Other books by Sarah Negovetich
Rite of Rejection (Acceptance, Book 1)
Rite of Revelation (Acceptance, Book 2)
Rite of Redemption (Acceptance, Book 3)
C:>ONE.exe
I sit down on the edge of my death bed and wait for my mother to stop praying. This is her third round of the rosary, and there isn’t an end in sight. I tug on the bottom of my black t-shirt and focus on the worn, vintage cotton as her voice rises another octave.
“Mama, I appreciate your prayers,” I say, keeping out all but a tiny bit of sarcasm. “Is that really how you want to spend our last minutes together?”
Her voice lifts from a mumbled whisper to a plea loud enough to wake the dead. “And protect her soul on its journey from this life to the next. Welcome her spirit into your eternal kingdom. In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit. Amen.”
“Enough already, Mama.”
She turns to me, her eyes glistening, and it sends a sharp stab of pain to my heart. “Mija, prayers are all I have left for you. You are going to lie here and die, and I’m helpless to save my baby girl. I can’t stop it, so all I can do is pray.”
I hop down off the bed and wrap her tiny frame in my arms. She’s even smaller than normal. “I’m the sick one here. You need to eat something before you waste away to nothing.”
She holds me back so tight the buttons of her shirt press into my collar bone. Her light floral perfume tickles my nose. “I’ll eat when you’re dead.”
“Oh, there she is.” I pull back and smile at the cheeky grin on my mother’s face. “I was wondering when we’d get to trade in the pity-filled, wallowing mother for the one that taught me to suck it up and take crap from no one.”
“Viv, language!” My mother waves a bony finger in my face.
I shrug and pull at the bottom of my favorite black t-shirt.
“You couldn’t have worn something a little nicer?”
“What?” I smooth my hands across the white screen-printed words. Did you try turning it off and turning it back on? “It’s kinda appropriate since I’m about to be rebooted.”
“Don’t talk like that. You’re not so close to the pearly gates that I can’t take off my shoe.”
“Mama! Mothers don’t beat their dying children.”
“Sure they do.” She winks at me in the way I’ll miss forever. “There just aren’t any survivors to tell the tale.”
I can’t hold the laughter back, and in seconds we’re both nearly doubled over, sending gales of laughter into the tiny sterile room. Then my laugh turns into a cough and I can’t breathe, and we’re brought right back to the reality of why I’m here. I’m dying. Now.
Dr. Brooks walks into the room, his ever-present tablet in hand. It’s the latest model with responsive touch and holographic display. My palms itch to take a peek at what’s hiding beneath the crack-proof screen. But those days are gone now.
“How are you feeling today, Viviana?”
“It’s Viv, and I guess I’m feeling fine considering I’m about to die.”
Dr. Brooks frowns down at his screen, before turning concerned eyes to me. “I realize it must feel that way to you, but your life still has time, and I assure you I will do everything in my power to make that time mean something.”
“Yeah, yeah.” I plop back down on the bed and turn my back to stare out the window. “This is the same spiel I’ve heard for the past six months. Every time I came in for a physical or psych evaluation. Do you guys have to memorize that before they give you the fancy white lab coats?”
“Viv.” The word comes out clipped and louder than it needs to be in this small, white box of a room. My mother lifts her eyebrows at me when I turn to face her. “Manners.”
“No, it’s perfectly fine, Ms. Quiroga.” Dr. Brooks flashes her his special smile that seems only dedicated to my mother. The one that shows off perfectly white, pin-straight teeth in just the right amount between balm-smoothed lips. Like a TV commercial actor. “Viv’s reaction is completely normal considering the circumstances.”
Circumstances. As if I’m simply having a bad day or maybe my dog died. Every suit in this place takes my position in the Volunteer Act of Life Research Program to be some dry, emotionless decision. Like which pair of socks to wear under my vintage, mint condition, high-top Chuck Taylors.
The psychologists are the exact opposite, constantly asking questions like, “Why do you want to die?”
As if I have some choice in the matter. I lost that the third time the cancer came back and the oncologist said we were out of treatment options. It’s no longer a question of if I will die or even when. The answer to that is “yes” and “soon.” The only freedom of choice I still have is how it all goes down.
“Well,” Dr. Brooks flips through a few screens on his tablet, “All the official documents are in order. The team is ready and standing by to begin the procedure. Please take all the time you need to make your goodbyes, and then we’ll begin.”
Dr. Brooks retreats to a corner of the room in an awkward approximation of privacy. I’d love to punch him in the nose, but all the psychiatrists I’ve seen would tell me I’m displacing my anger. They’d be right. I’m not actually mad at Dr. Brooks, and I know it’s not his fault that I’m sitting here dying. That doesn’t lessen my desire to break his nose with my fist.
I turn back to the window and stare out at the blue sky. White fluffy clouds dot the view with perfect randomness. There’s a park not too far from here. I can imagine a hoard of children enjoying a beautiful spring day, running through the grass and throwing their heads back to stare at the fluffy clouds and decide which one looks like a dinosaur. There’s always one that looks like a dinosaur.
This is easier. Staring out the window and imagining other people living their lives is easier than trying to figure out the right words to say as I end mine.
“I want to be there.”
I spin back to face my reality and let out a long sigh.
“No, Mama.” We’ve had this argument at least a hundred times already. She argues that she wants to be there until the very last moment the procedure takes effect and my body falls into a coma that I’ll never wake up from. I argue that the whole thing is going to be stressful enough, and I don’t want her last memories of me alive to be hooked up to a machine like a broken hard drive. Then she counters that she can’t live with herself knowing her only daughter left this world surrounded by a team of strangers and not her family. That’s usually when she breaks down into gut-wrenching sobs and I tell her we can decide later.
“Listen to me, Viviana Mariposa Maria Quiroga.” Shit, full name. “I am your mother. You may be old enough to sign these papers and make this decision, but there are some rights a parent never gives up. Being there to hold your hand until your eyes close is one of those rights.”
I nod. There’s no arguing with her. I know from too much experience that evoking my full mouthful of a name means Mama has reached her business mode. I have never once won an argument after hearing those four words. “I guess we’re ready.�
��
Dr. Brooks walks back over to the bed, taps his screen, and hands me the tablet that cost more than our house payment. “I just need a thumbprint authorization and one final signature for verification. The document states—”
I press my thumb to the screen, and it emits a sharp beep. “I don’t need to know what it says. The end result is the same. I get a thirty-day cat nap while your doctors poke around in my brain and feed experimental drugs into my cancer-ridden body. Then I die and you pay off all those pesky medical bills threatening to ruin my mother’s life.”
“Well, that’s a fairly crude way of saying it.” I raise one eyebrow at Dr. Brooks. “But, yes, that is the gist of it.”
“Perfect.” I use the feather-light carbon stylus to sign my name on the glare- and scratch-resistant screen and hand the tablet back before the temptation to take it apart gets to me.
Dr. Brooks glances at the screen and then tucks the tablet under one arm. “I’ll alert the team that you’re ready.” He gives my mother another toothy smile and leaves the room, shutting the door behind him.
My mother stares at me, and I stare back. What do we say? Eighteen years together isn’t long enough, but that’s all we get. We’ve been here so many times before. All those years of surgeries, treatments, and Hail Marys. So much time spent in a hospital room with me in the bed, so weak I could barely sit up, and Mama in the corner, worrying her prayer beads. But this time is different. Those procedures gave me more time, but none of them found a cure. So rather than waste away, I’ll go out on my own terms.
“Come here, mija.” My mother sets her prayer beads down and opens her arms to me.
I rush into her embrace and dig my face into her neck. I can’t resist the tears that pool up in my eyes and spill down my cheeks. They aren’t for me. I made my peace with my lot in life a long time ago. The tears are for my mother. Losing my father just about killed her, but at least I was there to share her pain. With me gone, she’ll have to suffer through this alone. The only bright spot is knowing she won’t have to mourn me from under a pile of debt. My debt. Because she was willing to try any medicine or treatment that might have saved me, no matter the cost. This is the least I can do.
“Oh, my sweet girl.” She smooths the back of my head and croons soothing words. “You were always so strong. Even when the cancer was at its worst, you were such a rock. So you go ahead and cry now because you deserve those tears.”
I nod and burrow deeper into her hug. Content to take all her love and strength until the doctors come in to kill me.
C:>TWO.exe
Alright, Viv, a little pressure and a slight sting.” A nurse wearing puppy dog scrubs expertly inserts the needle for my IV and tapes it off on my hand. “We’re going to put just a bit of something in here to keep you relaxed. We want you to be comfortable.”
The young nurse gives me a smile, and I force myself to smile back. She’s the first person in this operation who’s treated me like a person instead of an experiment. She pushes away a lock of dark hair hanging in front of her eye and listens to my chest with a bright pink stethoscope. My heart must sound fine for once because she nods and smiles.
“All set and ready to go.” She pats my hand, the one without the needle, and makes some notations on her tablet. It’s another fancy one, but I only have a slight urge to inspect it. I turn my head to find my mother, and the room slowly slides into place in front of me. Damn, those drugs work fast.
“Are you okay, mija?” My mother stands and replaces the nurse next to me. Her hands rest on the hand-made blanket covering my legs. It was Abuela’s, and the bright colors contrast against the stark white of everything else in the sterile room.
“Yeah.” The word comes out slow and slurred, like it needs more syllables than it should. I hate losing control. Maybe the nurse can turn the meds down until the last possible second. I search the room, straining my eyes to keep my head still. The nurse is gone. I didn’t even see her leave. I guess this is the last possible second.
Five doctors march into the room and immediately set to work on the dozens of machines surrounding my bed. My mother and I might as well be part of the furniture.
“Viviana, your vitals look fantastic, and everything is ready to go.” Dr. Brooks flashes my mother his perfect, white-toothed smile.
“It’s Viv,” my mother says, in the same tone usually reserved for executing my full name.
“Of course, Viv.” Dr. Brooks waves his hand in the air as if the petty details of my actual name are inconsequential to the action at hand. Namely, knocking me off into an irreversible coma.
“No.” My mother straightens her back and squeezes my hand between both of hers. Her eyes narrow on the good doctor as her voice fills the room. “Not, ‘Of course, Viv.’ My daughter is not some afterthought to your little experiment here. She is a kind, intelligent, precious child, and she deserves your thanks and respect.”
Dr. Brooks stares slack-jawed at my mother. She tends to have that effect on people who aren’t used to her. She’s ferocious for a tiny, Hispanic woman who couldn’t weigh more than a hundred pounds soaking wet.
“I apologize. Viv is incredibly brave, and taking care of her will be my absolute top priority over the next month.”
My mother nods, but her pressed lips make it clear all is not forgiven yet.
“Would you like a few more minutes alone before we start the meds?”
My mother stares down at me. Her face is blurry, but I can still see the tears watering her eyes. I grip her hand and struggle to keep my eyes open. Whatever flows into this IV is making me sleepy. I bite my lip, but the pain I need to stay awake doesn’t come.
Mama smiles at me. “It’s okay, sweet love.” She crouches next to my bed and kisses our joined hands. “You don’t have to fight it. I will never be ready to let you go, but you deserve some peace. You’ll be in my prayers every day. Say hello to your father. I love you.”
My eyes are tiny slits, blocking out everything but my mother’s beautiful tear-stained face. “I love you forever, Mama.”
✽✽✽
The room is ridiculously bright. Light seems to be coming from everywhere, but I can’t find the source. It’s like the room is its own source. It takes a second to focus through the light before I notice anything else. The room is empty. Even my bed is gone. But I’m still in the sweatpants I insisted on instead of the scratchy hospital gown Dr. Brooks wanted me to wear. And my grandmother’s quilt wraps around my shoulders. I pull it tighter around me, though I don’t think I’m cold. It’s hard to tell. I’m not warm either. I’m not sure I’m here…wherever here is.
The light dims a bit, or maybe my eyes just adjust to the brightness. It doesn’t change what I can see. Nothing. Just white. Is this it? Am I dead? Maybe purgatory? Or is this what it feels like to be in a coma? My brain spins with the possibilities, and my fingers itch to jump on the web and research stories from coma survivors. I guess I should have done that before now, but I didn’t bother. I won’t be a survivor.
Turning in a tight circle, I survey the…room? I guess it is, though if there are walls, I can’t see them. What now? With all the forms I had to fill out and evaluations I sat through, no one told me what I was supposed to do. Am I stuck in here for the next thirty days? I’ll go crazy for sure.
My legs are tired. Must be the drugs. I guess. With the bed gone, I simply fold my legs up underneath me and sink to the floor. I expect it to be cold, but it’s as if the whole room is completely in tune with my personal body temp. It isn’t hot or cold. It just is.
I close my eyes and pull Abuela’s quilt tighter around my shoulders. Maybe I can sleep in here for the next month. Dreams would be preferable to staring into the white blankness. I count to one hundred, then five hundred. I’m rounding one thousand when a tiny crack of sound breaks into the quiet. My eyes pop open. Well, I try to pop them open, but my lids aren’t cooperating. Instead, they creep open one millimeter at a time. There’s nothing in front of
me, so I turn around in frustrating slow motion and freeze.
Twenty yards away, there’s a crack in the white. A little line, like a door opening in the wall. It widens as I stare at it, a contrasting blackness behind the opening. When the crack opens to the size of a door, a fuzzy figure emerges from the darkness. I scoot closer to the door, and a person takes form. Definitely a person, tall. Broad, but not fat. The person steps forward, and their features come into focus the second they cross the threshold into the light.
“Daddy?” My voice squeaks out and sounds empty in this blank space.
The man I haven’t seen in ten years takes another step forward, a smile on his face that I’ve missed every day of those years. “Come here, sweetheart.”
I jump as fast as my limbs can move, the quilt falling to the ground, and run in almost slow motion into his waiting arms. Strong hands clasp at my back and stroke my head. My face burrows into the worn flannel shirt that should be hanging in the back of Mama’s closet. I don’t waste time trying to figure out why it’s here on a man who’s been dead for ten years. I’ve wished for this so many times, and now here he is.
My father holds me back and stares into my face. I blink away tears so I can see him clearer.
“Look at how grown you are. So beautiful.” He pushes the short, purple hair away from my face. “Your mama must hate that.”
“She does.” I smile at the memory of the day I came home with my dark brown hair dyed bright purple. She was furious, her lips twisted like she’d tasted something awful while she searched for the right words. I was so sick from some new experimental drug, and she was always hesitant to say anything that might make me feel worse than I already did. Which is exactly why I knew I could get away with it. By the time we learned the drug wasn’t working and I stopped taking it, the purple had just become normal. “Where are we?”
Ghost Code Page 1