by Fynn Perry
He moved closer to her, and, noticing her eyelashes twitch, reached out his hand to touch hers. It passed straight through, causing her arm to flinch slightly. The ping of the monitor registered an increased heartbeat briefly before settling again to a regular beat.
He stood back as one of the nurses approached. She opened Jennifer’s gown to check the heart sensor on her chest. This was how he would see her breasts for the first time? As a ghost, a spirit––whatever he was––while she lay unconscious? He thought it highly inappropriate, but looked anyway. Besides, who would know? And why not? They were beautiful, and he still felt like a red-blooded male even if he no longer looked like one. He didn’t have long to admire Jennifer’s body. The view was suddenly closed off as the nurse did Jennifer’s gown back up and checked the pulse oximeter clip.
John followed the nurse back to her station. “All good. Just some bad dreams she was having, I guess,” she announced to her colleague and typed something into her computer before continuing. “Just a concussion, according to her doctor. Took a nasty fall, poor darling. She should be fine. Her boyfriend’s a different matter. He was stabbed. The surgery saved his life but now he’s in the coma unit. Such a nice-looking boy…”
John tuned out as the words ‘in the coma unit’ sunk in. He suddenly had the feeling that the spirit of the old man may have been right; maybe he was as good as dead, destined never to recover from his coma and stay the way he was as a spirit or accept the seemingly open invitation to move on to the afterlife. He suddenly felt very fatigued. Perhaps it was from the fall he had suffered earlier, its effect catching up with him, or maybe it was a result of the devastating feeling he now felt inside. A feeling that maybe this really was no dream. He pushed himself to leave the ward. If he could find the coma unit and his father, then maybe he could overhear a conversation about his condition and the prognosis.
His legs felt sluggish and the floor seemed to soften and stick like spilt honey as it demanded increasing amounts of effort to get a firm rebound from it. He suddenly felt an overwhelming need to rest and noticed that his glow was dimmer than it had been.
Passing through the door that led out of the ICU took longer than before, but his concern faded as a group of people standing in the waiting area outside caught his attention. One of them was his father. Another was Jim Donovan, and next to them, there was a couple, both about his father’s age. John couldn’t help calling out to his father, standing in front of him to try to get even the faintest of reactions. Nothing worked.
A man in a rain-spattered, tan leather jacket, and trousers with very damp cuffs, was addressing the gathering. “I promise you, we will put the full resources of the department into finding and prosecuting the attacker of your son and daughter.”
The man was clearly someone from the police, probably a detective, but John’s interest lay with the couple––he didn’t recognize them, but he figured they could be Jennifer’s parents. A second later he was proven correct.
“We have to see our daughter,” the woman said sternly, sidestepping the detective as she made her way to the intercom next to the ICU entrance. She was dressed in hippie style, wearing a flowery dress and sandals. The contours of her face were perhaps a little less sharp, her skin a bit puffier with age, but John could see a striking resemblance between mother and daughter. A brief conversation ensued through the intercom, the door buzzed open, and one of the nurses John had seen earlier let her in. The nurse waited with the door open for Jennifer’s father to come through.
John regarded him for a moment. His boyish looks, of which only his piercing blue eyes seemed to have been passed on to Jennifer, suggested that he would have been a good match to Jennifer’s mother in their youth, but out of the two of them, the years had definitely been kinder to her mother. “You’ll need a statement from us both, I know, Geoff,” her father said to the detective, shaking the man’s hand before disappearing through the door.
“You know each other?” John’s father asked the detective, echoing John’s thoughts.
“Yeah, David Miller is a lawyer at a legal clinic in Brooklyn. We’ve crossed paths a number of times on cases. OK, so from what you told me earlier, we have some time to talk now?”
“They won’t let me see John until tomorrow morning. Something about him being post-op and in a coma, requiring total rest, no distractions.” John’s father’s eyes watered, and John felt a deepening of the despair he had felt earlier. At this moment he couldn’t imagine feeling any more alone than he did now. His legs seemed to weaken and he reached out to grab hold of the backrest of one of the chairs in the waiting area to steady himself. Remembering what the spirit of the old man had told him, he focused on his hand interacting with the surface and, in doing so, he was able to grab hold of the backrest and lower himself to sit in the corner of the room.
As John looked at his father’s distraught face, the voices around them faded into the background and he recalled their last meal together. His father had been so busy setting up his new property development venture in New York that they hadn’t had the chance to properly celebrate their move to the city until two nights ago. They had gone to Patterson’s, a proper, old-school steakhouse oozing with history from the nineteenth century and located in the Meatpacking District. It had been a real father and son moment, a kind of rite of passage and a fitting welcome to the Big Apple. The memories of his father’s excited tones that evening now seemed to blend in and out with what John was hearing in the waiting room. As he felt exhaustion taking hold, he heard his father passionately vowing to find the knife attacker, and Jim Donovan’s voice expressing words of support. John caught a few more words, now undecipherable, before he could no longer stay awake. His glow dimmed, and he felt the stress that had gripped him slacken.
Lying still with her eyes closed, Jennifer looked calm and at rest. On the inside, however, her mind was desperately trying to piece together the events of the previous evening.
In her memory, she was transported to the moment when she and John had entered O’Donnell’s—the spirited conversation, the crush of bodies along the bar, laughter and music filling the air, the distinct odor of yeasty, dark ales and musty upholstery. Not unpleasant, but distinctly different to most bars. To her surprise, she and John had been immediately welcomed by a large, bald man with a smile that she couldn’t help feeling was disingenuous. He introduced himself as Jim Donovan, the proprietor and a family friend who was willing to ignore that they were underage.
Anyone other than John, who had known Jennifer ever since he had started school in New York three months ago, would have balked at the idea of her even being there. She adopted a nerdy persona at school, and academically speaking, she was more than qualified to do so. It provided convenient cover and meant that she was left alone by the one-track, simple-minded jocks she detested. That had left only the shy guys, stoners and real nerds to choose from, and they all failed in her book for a variety of reasons. Until she met John, she had never been able to find someone with whom she could be herself. His default state seemed to be contentment, and he was witty and superbly confident. She had been taken entirely by surprise at how effortlessly and amusingly he had won her affection. In fact, she was damn near to falling for him—something she didn’t do lightly.
Sometime later that evening as they sat in one of the wooden booths, the music from the speakers had quietened, and Jim Donovan had introduced a band named The Hedonists––a group of three boys and one girl, all in their early twenties and dressed in ripped black jeans and black shirts. The tallest boy, who had an electric guitar hanging from his chest, walked up to the microphone and, without saying a word, started to slowly strum a melody while singing a gentle ballad. The rhythm quickly gathered speed and the drums then kicked in. At the foot of the stage, a crowd had gathered and were exchanging looks of enthusiasm.
The lead singer finished the first verse and paused while the rest of the band kept the beat going as background to his words of welcome
and introduction. He mentioned the group was short of their brilliant bass guitarist but, by some great stroke of luck, he had just been spotted in the audience! And at that, the singer had pointed to John, who gave Jennifer a wink as he got up to make his way to the stage.
Jennifer had realized that the band had planned all of this, but it was still kind of cool. As soon as John had set up his own guitar, which was sitting ready for him at the back of the stage, the band broke from the repetitive beat and blasted back to the song with a crash of drums and a new bass line—played by John. She looked on, dazzled.
After a few more numbers, Jennifer watched as the crowd formed into pairs and danced to what she assumed was an Irish jig. Distracted, she didn’t notice John stepping off the stage. She became aware of his absence only when he appeared in the dancing crowd, hand outstretched and an expectant look on his face. She wasn’t a natural when it came to dancing, but for him and for the chance to be close, she dropped her usual reserve.
He had grabbed her hand, pulling her into the midst of the dancing throng and starting to patiently teach her the basics. Not so bad, she thought. The beat quickened, gradually at first, then sped up dramatically, and with it the pace of the steps. There were whoops and shrieks of delight as the crowd around her became a blur of spins and fast-moving feet. She frantically tried to keep up with John’s footwork, but she was lagging behind and falling out of step. She found her feeble attempts comical and had no problem laughing at herself. She became hopelessly out of rhythm, and the more she tried, the more she found her efforts hysterically amusing.
Others had always found her laugh contagious, and John was certainly not immune. After a few more minutes, he led her back to their booth. She remembered his broad grin subsiding as her eyes fixed upon his. The intense excitement she had felt as his eyes locked with hers. They had said nothing. It was a moment that needed no words. A defining moment that took their relationship to a new level.
The spell had been shattered by Jim Donovan unexpectedly approaching their booth and crouching by the table. Red-faced and with beads of sweat glistening on his balding scalp, he had quietly asked them to leave. He had spotted what he was pretty sure was an undercover cop in the pub, checking IDs to find any underage drinkers. Jennifer was ready to leave, but John was more reluctant to do so. He suggested Jim take it easy at first, but Jim still seemed very serious and intent on their leaving, so they quickened their exit.
The prospect of sharing a cab was now very appealing, as was taking shelter from the pouring rain together under a canopy while they waited . . .
“Jennifer? Can you hear me?”
The words crashed through the dream, ending it.
Jennifer slowly opened her eyes, but it remained unnervingly dark in the ward. She heard a mixture of voices around her: one of them reflected her own feeling of rising panic––it was, of course, her mother’s; another, calmer, belonged to her father; and there was also a third, a calm female voice she didn’t recognize.
“I’ll get her doctor,” she heard the female stranger’s voice say urgently, and guessed it belonged to a nurse. She was in the hospital, that much she now knew. “What happened?” she mouthed, but no sound came out. She felt the tension in her body escalate––she couldn’t see, and she couldn’t talk––and her hands clenched into fists, grasping folds of bedsheet as she did so.
“Just take it easy,” a male voice soothed in an Italian-accented, rich baritone. The speaker was obviously from his home country, and not New York Italian. “Jennifer, I’m Doctor di Luca. Just nod if you understand me.”
She felt him sit on the edge of her bed and place his hand on one of her balled fists, smothering it with warmth. Grateful that not all her senses had left her, she nodded, the tension within her slightly subsiding, her fingers relaxing.
“You’ve been through a terrible experience, and the fact that you can’t see or speak is temporary. It’s due to the effects of extreme shock.” The voice continued, softer now. “I will ask you a few questions, and I want you to write the answers, if you can.”
Jennifer felt her right hand being gently opened, her fingers being molded around the warm metal body of a recently used pen. Instinctively, she grasped it, and felt paper on a firm surface being inserted beneath her hand.
Jennifer scribbled awkwardly, conveying her foremost concern in a single word that was barely legible: J-O-H-N
It was meant as a question and she started nervously tapping the pen on the paper, frustrated at the lack of response.
There was a pause before Di Luca’s hand returned to her own, steadying and calming it. “I was attending him when you both came in. He’s stable, but his injuries were severe.” Di Luca paused for a moment as he heard Jennifer gasp in shock at this news. Then she tapped her pen impatiently for him to continue.
“In cases such as John’s, the body protects itself by going into a coma. It channels all its energy into repairing itself. I am sorry, but it’s too early to say how long recovery will take.”
Jennifer’s eyes widened and her body tensed as she tried to scream out, “No!” but couldn’t. She started to tremble, and her eyes welled.
“I’m just going to give you a mild sedative to calm your nerves and then we’ll let you sleep so you can regain your strength,” he assured her. As Jennifer felt the hot prick of a needle into her upper forearm and cool liquid entering her veins, she heard the doctor advise her parents to go home and sleep in their own beds, as she would now be out until the morning.
Jennifer’s body may have returned to rest, but her mind was still working hard, assembling memories from earlier that evening. Its relentless toil was bringing her ever closer to reliving the fateful moment of the attack.
She remembered standing on her toes, stretching upward, her lips less than an inch from John’s left ear. Their first date was drawing to a close, and any remaining doubts that she had about him possibly being nothing more than a ‘player’ were collapsing under the pressure of her increasing desire to kiss him. She wobbled, grasping his jacket for support with one hand and pushing against his chest with the other. She felt the inviting warmth and scent of his body and luxuriated in it, blissfully unaware of what was about to happen.
A canopy over one of the etched glass windows at the front of O’Donnell’s provided them with shelter and a patch of shade, away from an overhead vapor light. It bathed their surroundings in a dim monochrome, punctuated by occasional car headlights illuminating slices of falling rain. It was reminiscent of an old black and white movie she had once seen.
“Thanks for trying to impress me!” she whispered with a wry smile. Intoxicated with desire, her pupils widened and searched for his. John broke his search for a cab and looked down in response, unexpectedly disoriented by the strength of her gaze. She lowered her heels, careful not to break eye contact.
“I’m doing standup comedy next week,” he joked, raising a smile from her as he lowered his head slowly so his lips could meet with hers.
They continued their unbreakable stare, his lips almost upon hers. She could feel her heart racing. All their exchanges of casual conversation and all her amateurish flirting had led to this one, dramatic moment. It would be a moment never to be repeated, though often longed for. Her eyes darted over the features of his face, each time coming back to his eyes, which had once again settled on hers. Hopes for love and happiness flashed through her mind and her body shivered in excited expectation of that magical first kiss. She moved her lips closer, and they tingled in anticipation of a union with his.
In her peripheral vision, through half-closed eyes, she saw the blur of a fast-approaching figure. She was reluctant, at first, to acknowledge the threat, even dismissive of it, but then instinct took over. She turned her head. Surprise, then horror, crossed her features as she saw that a hooded figure, all in black, was nearly upon them. John followed her line of sight, eyes widening as he realized the implications.
His attempt to turn his body to sh
ield her came too late.
The impact threw her, robbing her of breath . . .
Jennifer’s eyelids trembled, and her legs twitched violently. Her mind, charged with adrenaline, processed the images that had played out before her as she was thrown backward: the vicious slash of the steel blade across John’s stomach, its bloody exit, John doubled over in pain, clutching his stomach and dropping to his knees, his wrenching screams of agony.
Her eyelids flicked open and her lips parted with a gasp of astonishment. For a split second, in her transition to wakefulness, she saw clearly the lower half of the attacker’s face—just long enough to notice that his expression conflicted with what she would have expected. She saw signs of surprise, maybe even remorse.
Her breathlessness slowly gave way to a deepening sense of relief as she realized she was awake and her eyesight was returning. Gradually, she was able to focus on and register objects. The first images were blurred and unclear. Bit by bit, she was able to make out the shape of a door, the walls, then more and more detail. She could see the corridor and other rooms through the glazed panels of her room. All was still. The only sounds to be heard were of labored breathing from the patients and the beeping of monitoring equipment.
The light in the corridor seemed different now, as if it had been bathed in a pallid moonglow with an orange tint. It was becoming brighter and had now seeped into her room, its source approaching from her left. Focusing her eyes, she let out a silent gasp as she started to distinguish a human-shaped form at the center of the orange radiance. She closed her eyes, hoping she had imagined what she had just seen, but the glow persisted, penetrating her eyelids with increasing intensity.
Lying motionless, heartbeat quickening, she realized that whatever it was must be right in front of her. It took all her resolve not to squeeze her eyes shut and tense her frame––they would be clear giveaways. But her fear found another outlet to make itself known, to show her sleep was just a ruse—her brow was rapidly moistening and, soon, drops of sweat would appear.