–from the journals of Zechariah Price
I tell them I can walk just fine, but they insist on the wheelchair. It’s the day following restoration of my sight and I’m being pushed from the room into the hall, the same hall down which we escaped. There’s no guard at the front desk as we wait on the elevator. There are no pregnant women. My escorts are the nurse and Ulla.
The pad of paper is in my lap. I write, “Where is the guard?”
“Gone,” Ulla says.
“Why?”
“They are all gone,” she says.
“They?”
“The ladies, Doctor Weiss, and all the nurses.”
“Except for me,” says my nurse escort. Is the angry edge in her voice because she’s left behind or because she knows they left because of me? “I’ve remained to take care of you.” The elevator opens on my floor and she pushes me out. “The doctor will return to check on you periodically.”
“Can I get reports on Tanya?”
“Certainly,” she says.
Ulla opens my apartment door and we all go in. Little has changed. The first thing I look for is my computer. It’s out of the bag, sitting on the desk.
“I’ve restocked for you based on the fact that you can only eat through a straw. I’ll bring something more tangible when you’re ready. I’ve also added a blender and a shaker. For right now I recommend chicken broth.” There is a definite coolness about Ulla. “Let me know if you need anything else.”
She starts to leave but I stop her and write, “I suppose there are still cameras and microphones watching and listening to my privacy.”
“Of course.” She leaves.
The nurse takes my pad and writes something. She hands it back to me. “That’s my number. Call if you need anything. I’ll visit you at ten, two and six to help you with physical therapy. Do you need anything right now?”
“No.” Between the day before and now I have managed to get my mouth open enough that I can say no, and suck through a straw. It still feels like my tongue is three times its normal size and that whatever stuck me is still lodged in the roof of my mouth. “Tissue swelling,” the doctor said.
The nurse starts to leave and I catch her arm. “How do I call you if I can’t talk?” I write.
“Grunt,” she says without humor. “I’ll know who it is,” and then she is gone.
Now what, Zechariah Price? You’re alone . . . I look around . . . except for big brother Sans Sanssabre. Big Brother SS. I’d laugh if it didn’t hurt.
I go to the kitchen. I can’t wait to cut into a can of chicken broth. I look in the cupboard. How about a big slice of beef bouillon? I microwave a bowl of chicken broth and then sit down with my laptop. While it powers up I gingerly suck on the broth. Although I can use a straw there’s a need to be gentle with the sucking muscles. I consume my meal slowly.
Everything appears to be intact, except for my secret journal–zj.doc. Not surprisingly, it’s gone. I remember the female who came in and took the CD. They might not have been able to open the file on the CD because it’s password protected, however they can get the name and the date it was created and from that, locate it on the laptop. I pull out the box of cereal. The CD is still in there. I put it in the CD drive and wait for it to spin up.
It’s blank.
What the hell? I go to the laptop bag and look at the three blank CDs I had stored in one of the pockets. There are only two. The third is missing. When the thief came in she went to my desk first, but in the dark I couldn’t see what she was doing. Now it makes sense. She was using one of my own blanks to replace the one she was taking from the Chex box so that I wouldn’t realize it had been messed with. Maybe they thought I’d think the CD went bad or I accidentally erased it.
Doesn’t matter anymore. Water under the bridge.
The battery is low so I plug the computer in and start another bowl of soup heating. While I wait I do what I’ve been dreading; I go to the bathroom mirror. What I see is not nearly as bad as I imagined; however, it’s a lot worse than I had hoped. I try to believe it’s not me, but when I raise a hand to my eye patch the image in the mirror does the same thing. If my daughters were to look at this they’d make faces, gag and turn away, maybe even scream and run away. Black, purple, orange, green, blue, yellow. You name it, it’s all there, except for natural skin tone. There is barely any of that. The healing of the penetration points, however, is amazing. I can see where it happened but the wounds are nearly scab-free already. I have an urge to lift off the eye patch and pull up the tape that’s holding the gauze, packing and whatever else they have stuffed under there. I’ve seen enough horror for one morning though. I return to the kitchen microwave. My appetite is gone. I shove the bowl of soup into the refrigerator and go take a shower.
I want so badly to let the hot water beat against my face but I don’t want to get the eye bandage wet. I remove the patch and then carefully wash my hair without getting water on my face. After washing my body I linger for a long time under the hot water and think about Tanya. I picture her in a wheelchair, the girls pushing her, taking care of her. I’m so sorry, Tanya. I let the water beat upon me.
I’m dressed and back in the living room thinking about how much having only half my sight changes things. My judge of distances is different and one side of my peripheral is gone, but I can see my nose. It’s always been there. Why can I see it now?
The phone rings.
I pick it up. “Haaoo.”
“Is this Mister Price?”
“Yaaa.”
“This is Doctor Murgall, your wife’s tending physician. Nothing to be worried about. I was given this number in case I needed to call you for anything. I thought I would give you an update.”
I have a dozen questions at least, but the only thing I can say is, “O . . . K.”
“I was told you had some injuries as well and your speech might be a bit limited. Is that correct?”
A bit limited! “Yaaa.”
“I believe you already know that she is out of intensive care. However, she is far from out of the woods. She’s awake and has been asking about you. All the information I had is that you are recovering. I know that there is a Lance Evans here and he has given her more information. He tells me you cannot be here for a while. Do you know when that would be? She could certainly use your support.”
I grunt my no.
“I’m told you have a nurse so why don’t you take my number and have her call me with your questions and your plans?”
He gives me a number and I write it on my pad.
“Your wife is fighting pneumonia. We’re having success with that but it’s weakening her considerably. There does appear to be some feeling in her left foot with only three days out of surgery. That’s a good sign, but not enough to get our hopes up too high. Right now it’s her life we worry about and that is centered around the punctured lung and the pneumonia.
“Well, you have my number. Have the nurse call me.”
“Yaaa.”
“Good day, Mister Price.”
I put the phone down and for the first time since coming back into the apartment, I look out the window and see the snow. Wow! There seems to be more snow now than the day I arrived. How can something so beautiful be so deadly?
I regret the decision to agree to write Vandermill’s book. But did I have any choice in the matter? I was being blackmailed. How long will it take me? If I do nothing but eat, sleep and write, how long will it take to produce what he wants, and then what about editing? How long will it take to fix all the edits, which from what Aileen said, may be considerable?
I bring the laptop out of sleep mode and then stare at it.
Where do I begin?
It’s 10:05. The nurse is late for my therapy. I wouldn’t care except she can call Doctor Murgall and ask my questions. Instead of getting into the book I make a series of questions to ask the doctor and then realize I’m not able to print it out. I retrieve my notepad, rip off a clean sheet
and write,
Items needed:
Laser printer
Internet connection
Stereo system with CD player
I start making a mental list of music I want and then the nurse walks in. She has yet to tell me her name. She’s nearly a half hour late. “Shall we get started?” she says flatly.
The sooner the better if it’ll help me be able to talk again. I write quickly about Doctor Murgall’s phone call and then show her my questions displayed on my laptop screen.
“I’ll call him. Can you print that for me?”
I hand her my list of needed items.
“Okay. I’ll give that to Ulla. Right now we need to do your therapy.”
“No,” I write. “I can’t relax until I know about Tanya.” I give her my best sad puppy-dog look, hoping there is some softness inside of her, that that cold exterior is just that–a cold exterior.
She doesn’t bat an eye, doesn’t smile, doesn’t frown. “Certainly,” she says. She sits at my desk and dials the number, waits and then says, “Doctor Murgall please.”
I write on my pad, “Tell him to tell Tanya I’m recovering fast and I’ll be there as soon as I can, no more than a month.” Maybe I can make a deal with Vandermill. I cross out, “no more than a month,” and write, “I’ll try to visit soon.”
“Doctor Murgall,” she says. “This is Nurse Marie Peterson at Sans Sanssabre in Montana. I’m calling for Zechariah Price who I believe you just spoke with . . . Yes . . . He’s recovering quite nicely except for his speech. We’re doing therapy. . . It’s much too early for a prognosis. . . Yes, we have minimal facilities here and I am a licensed physical therapist.”
I point to my note pad.
“He asks that you pass on to Mrs. Price that he’ll be there as soon as he can travel, and that he loves her.”
If I could smile at her I would. I write, “Thank you,” on the note pad in bold letters, pat her on the arm and then pace while she asks the questions, peeking over her shoulder frequently. With the phone tucked up under her chin she types the answers after each question and then adds a few questions of her own. There are medical words well over my head but I get the gist of Tanya’s guarded condition and tentative prognosis. Then I find out that Tanya’s mother and sister have arrived.
Who has the girls? I’m glad at this point I can’t talk so that I don’t have to talk to them and answer their questions. I don’t know what kind of hiking accident we had, where we were, how we were found; I know nothing. I love her mother but if she decides her daughter’s condition is my fault I might as well go face the triplets. I have to take the blame, though or she’ll try going after Sans Sanssabre.
Nurse Peterson hangs up. “I think you read everything I wrote. She has her mother and sister there and Doctor Murgall seems highly competent. I doubt there’s much you could do.”
I nod my head but disagree.
“Shall we get started?” She gets up from the chair. “Sit down. First I want to give you a gentle massage and then we’ll start doing some exercises. You’ll be a bit sore when we’re done.”
A bit sore! When she finished there were tears running down my cheeks. I had to go lie down and wait for the pain medication to kick in, which I crushed and dissolved in a liquid and then sucked through the straw. The sucking in itself was an ordeal. That and the therapy I wish not to repeat. I now lay on the bed with my eye closed considering her departing words.
“It’ll get better. I’ll be back at 2:00.”
Does it have to be that often? I’m not even going to be recovered from one before the next one hits. How am I going to get any work done?
When my eye pops open, it’s almost noon. I sit up. Although the pain is gone, my head is swimming. My walk into the kitchen is far from a straight line. I reheat the soup and then sit at the counter until I consume it all.
I’m feeling much better.
I bring the laptop out of power-save mode and read what Nurse Peterson wrote. I close the window and start organizing my research material. After that I set up some folders on the computer and then fool with more of the research material.
Busy work is not always productive work, my father used to say. He’d chide me when I was in high school because I’d spend too much time preparing to get to my school work. I don’t think he ever realized that sometimes busy work leads to productive work. I cannot focus until I am organized.
In this case, however, I catch myself avoiding getting started. But then getting started is often the hardest part, especially when I have such an intense internal pressure to get it done in short order. All this organizational busy work makes me feel like I’m running in place, digging an empty hole.
When Nurse Peterson comes in I’m sitting in the big chair with a blanket over me, staring out at the winter landscape. My awareness of her talking to me rises slowly. When did I sit down here? The last thing I recall is deciding that I needed to write an outline first to get some idea of the organization of the book and then typing a title for it. I lean forward in the chair and suddenly her hand is on my arm.
“I’ll need you to sit on one of the bar stools this time, Mister Price.”
I stand and the room swims.
“Sit back down,” she orders.
I don’t know where sit is but somehow or other she gets me back into my chair.
“Mister Price!”
I hear her voice but don’t know where she is. I can only catch glimpses of snow covered trees. Then, gradually, things start coming back and everything clears. “I’m sorry,” I try to say, but “Ine suu,” comes out.
“Mister Price! Look at me!”
I look at her.
“Do you know who I am?”
I nod.
She obtains my notepad and pencil and hands it to me. “Who am I?”
“The evil nurse,” I write, “who causes great pain.”
“Good.” There’s no expression. “Do you feel you are fully aware of your surroundings?”
“Yes,” I write. I don’t know what was happening before, but now I’m fully awake, hypersensitive to almost everything. I can pick out the sounds of the refrigerator running in the kitchen and the nearly silent hiss of warm air blowing from the vents. I can even hear her breathe. I need to get to the book. “Do I have to do this now?” I write. “Can we do this twice a day, like 10 and 6?”
“It’s necessary for your full recovery,” she says.
“I have to write, and I can’t leave until it’s done.”
“I don’t know.”
I think about my productive time and then write, “Actually, noon and 10 PM would be best–after my most productive time in the morning and just before going to bed.” I turn that toward her and then watch her expression.
The Iron Maiden.
I write again, “You don’t want to be here anymore than I do. I think you’re stuck here as long as I am so the sooner I’m done and gone the sooner you are too.”
“Fine, but I’m not doing it late. Stand up so I can see you have full control.”
I stand and walk back and forth and then hold out my arms and say, “Sssseee.”
“Good,” she says. “Do you have any pain?”
I shake my head.
“Very well. Be ready at six.” Without so much as an eyelash out of place on her chubby mannequin-like face, she departs.
I go straight to my desk. I have a vision. I kick the computer out of power-save mode again and then stare at what is on the screen. I hit page up and page down and find I have already written an outline. I don’t remember doing it but it’s very close to what I have bouncing around in my head. This is freaky. I’m doing things now I don’t remember. I don’t like this pain medication.
There are thirty-six chapters, each with a one-line summary title. Fourteen of the chapters I’ve written a paragraph or two expanding on what it will consist of. How could I have done this in two hours and fallen asleep as well, and not have remembered it?
It
’s after 2:30. How much can I do in three and a half hours? Will I fall into another trance and write something else without knowing it? I read everything I’ve written so far and then start with chapter fifteen, writing the intro paragraph. I’m on thirty-four when I hear the door open. I expect it to be Nurse Peterson, then realize it’s only 5:15.
It’s Ulla. She’s pushing a cart with a printer, as well as a CD player and tuner with speakers. “Mister Vandermill said you should get anything you want.”
How about a ticket out of here?
“Where would you like this?
There is an end table with a lamp. We move the lamp to the desk and place the printer there along with a couple reams of paper and the disk with the driver and installation software. The CD player rack of CDs goes on the counter. A quick glance at that and the system sends a painful memory up my jaw.
I fetch my note pad, rip to a clean sheet and write, “This is Ms. Bravelli’s.”
“I think she would approve, don’t you?” There is a depth of sadness and regret flowing off her.
“Yes. I imagine she would.” We then stand in silence for a time staring at the CDs. I finally break the trance and write, “What about the internet connection?”
“Don’t know about that.”
“Was the printer Aileen’s too?”
“It belongs to the company, but it was the one she used.”
So I’m helping them strip her apartment.
“Did she have family?”
“Just a mother that we know of. She’s in a nursing home in Missouri. I understand she wouldn’t know who you were talking about if she was told. Her mind is gone.”
“Oh,” I mumble through the mouth-like hole in my face. We are now standing by the printer. I’ve got the installation CD in my hands.
“Call if you need anything else,” Ulla says and then leaves.
I shut down the computer, hook up the printer and go through the installation process.
When I’m done I set up the CD player and arrange the speakers. Aileen’s CDs are of an interesting mix and gives me another insight into what her private person was about. There is Enya, The Moody Blues, Eric Clapton, The Beatles, Neil Diamond, the soundtrack from Doctor Dolittle, Willie Nelson, Michael Bolton, and Big Bad Voodoo Daddy. I put the last one on and then go about testing the printer. I’ve never heard their music. I like it. Very upbeat. It helps me ignore the growing pain in my face.
Sabre-Toothed Cat Trilogy Page 30