by Larry Center
As the doctors continued working on Tommy, Cheryl, Wade, and I went to the lunchroom. Hospital visitors surrounded us as well as men and women in blue scrubs. Chatter filled the air, but we ate in silence, all of us worn out. I still hadn’t slept. There was nothing to say. I felt like a zombie. Cheryl and Wade were both on the verge of tears, pale-faced. Sad.
Around one o’clock, I found an out-of-the-way garden in the hospital’s courtyard and sat on a white iron bench. The courtyard featured a gurgling fountain, some overhanging shade trees, and several rose bushes. Songbirds chirped nearby from shade trees. On another bench, a small child in a yellow dress with a yellow ribbon in her hair was lying in her mother’s arms. The mother looked pregnant. I gazed at them, but hardly registered the scene before me. Without sleep, I was having a hard time concentrating. I was a human sponge absorbing nothing but liquid pain.
A helicopter passed overhead, its engine clacking.
I yawned. I looked up at the sky for help, guidance, then closed my eyes.
I couldn’t help but ask the question, sitting there on that bench: Was there an honest to goodness meaning to life? Were we just purposeless random events colliding against each other? Why would the logic of the universe, if there was such a thing, want Tommy to experience the kind of pain he was undergoing?
I looked at the roses and my father’s poem came to mind: We’re all just a dash between two numbers.
No! I couldn’t buy that. We were more than that. We had to be. Each life had meaning. We were here to do something. To make sense of the world around us through our actions, to improve our own lot and the lots of others around us, even if it was only in some small way. It couldn’t all just be random chaos, could it?
And yet I thought of Tommy’s pale face and still body lying on the bed. His shallow breathing. His near lifelessness. Why? What was the purpose of that?
* * *
I finally called my father to relay the news, and that afternoon went downstairs on the hospital’s first floor to greet him. He was sitting in the lobby drinking from a Styrofoam coffee cup in his trembling hands. Belinda had driven him over. When he spied me, the mask of negativity and defiance he normally wore dripped away like wax. He stood with the help of his cane and clapped me on the back. A glimmer of tears filled his eyes.
We walked down the hall together and found an isolated spot, two chairs by a row of vending machines in a hallway that led to billing.
“Can I see him?” he asked. My father was unshaven and wore a stained white shirt; cracked lips, hairy nostrils, a gold watch encircled his wrist, but the band was too large for his frail wrist. He’d changed; but in his own mind, he’d stayed the same. As far as he was concerned, that watch-band still fit perfectly.
“Sorry, Dad. They won’t let anyone in his room but me, Cheryl, and Wade.”
My father’s shoulders sagged. For a minute, he closed his eyes, trying to get control. “I can’t believe it, Chris. First your mother, and now this. Hell, it’s like the whole damn world’s falling apart.” He frowned, scowled, his face drawing tight. He slugged his coffee down and finished it off, then made a face. “This stuff tastes like crap.”
“Dad, I really don’t need to hear about the bad coffee.” I grew angry.
“So, what’s the goddamn prognosis anyway?” My father coughed. “Shit. Go get me another cup of this crap, will you?”
I went and poured him another cup from the nearby coffee machine, then handed it to him, black. I poured a cup for myself. The coffee was awful, but in a sordid way, it was just what I needed, matching the way I felt.
“They can’t say,” I said when I sat down again. “It doesn’t seem like they really know a whole lot. It seems like ‘wait and see’ is their only mantra. Those seizures of his made his brain more vulnerable when he got that blow on the head. That’s what the doctor said anyway. I don’t know. It sounds logical, I guess.”
Seizures, brain trauma, coma. A deadly triumvirate, indeed.
I hung my head and sighed. I was on the verge of losing it right there. Wait and see was simply the frickin’ worst kind of mantra there could possibly be. I clenched my jaw. “Tommy just doesn’t deserve this. Isn’t the autism bad enough? I don’t know . . .” My voice trailed off. The fear, the dread hit me all at once. My gut turned hard and I put my face in my hands scrubbing my face with my hands. Then I looked at my father. “Ever thought about just plain giving up, Dad?”
My father drained his cup, crushed it, and threw it against the vending machine with surprising strength. He leaned forward and grabbed my shoulders with his hands, squeezed hard. “Now you look at me and you listen good, goddammit! We have got to believe, Chris. There’s no way in hell we are ever giving up on him. Do you understand? That boy of yours is going to pull out of this goddamn hole he’s in right now and come out alive.” His raw voice was like a slap in the face, waking me up. “And don’t you dare think otherwise. It’s going to happen, all right? We’ve got to set our minds on this. There’s only going to be one outcome here.” He threw up his first finger, signifying one. “One fucking outcome, all right? And don’t you forget it!”
The crazed glint in his eyes reminded me of Rocky Balboa’s manager, the old man in the first and second Rocky flicks. For some reason, that crazed look made me more hopeful, uplifted. I had no idea why. It was nuts, but his grumpiness actually made me feel a little better.
“Okay, Dad.”
“Look. You just go back in there and be with him, you hear me? And remember, it’s just like Yogi says: it’s not over till it’s over.” He stood slowly, leaned against his cane. I stood with him. “Damn drive over here was a mess. Sat in traffic for a half hour.”
“Are you sure you’re okay, Dad?” I asked, shoving my hands in my pockets.
“Don’t worry about me,” he said, then turned and slow-walked down the hall.
But I do, Dad. I always do.
* * *
Later, I spied Wade standing in the hallway outside Tommy’s room without Cheryl. He said she’d gone down to the lunchroom for something to eat, “for the baby.” I motioned for him to come with me, and together we stepped inside Tommy’s room, which was set at a cool temperature and was quiet except for the dull whir of the machines next to the bed. It was just the two of us, not even a nurse around. Wade’s face was a collision point of grief. He rubbed the back of his neck. He basically looked like he’d gone through hell and back. He was a far different man than Mister Jaguar.
“How’s Cheryl?” I asked softly.
“She’s a mess. How are you?”
“Totally fucked,” I said.
“God, Chris.” He threw his hands in the air. “I can’t believe this is happening. He’s such a sweet kid. I’m devastated. By the way, everyone down at Focus sends their regards.”
“Well, that’s nice.” I shoved my hands in my pockets. Focus. Ryerson. They were thinking of me. That was good to hear.
“Yes, I thought so.”
Suddenly, Wade closed his eyes and bowed his head. “Please God,” he said, “please help this little boy. Give Tommy back to us. Please, give him life. Hear us, Lord. Hear our prayer.”
Wade opened his eyes and a single tear ran down his cheek. He wiped it away with his thumb. He sniffled. “Never had any kids of my own, you know.” He sighed heavily. “But here I am, a second-stringer compared to you, but a father, nonetheless. Strange, isn’t it?”
“Very.”
Wade gulped. “I never thought I’d . . . I never thought I’d love him like I do.” When he turned away from me, his broad shoulders shook as he wept, covering his face with his hands.
I put my arm around him and we hugged. My skin tingled at the surprise of Wade’s raw emotions, my heartbeat raced. In that moment, I knew that Wade would make a good father for his own child with Cheryl.
* * *
Later that afternoon, I stepped out of the room for a break just as Cheryl walked in, scraggly hair, pale face. It was an emotional co
llision. We just stood there, the two of us, then turned toward Tommy. I suddenly didn’t know what to do with my hands. Being with Cheryl in the same room set me on edge. I stiffened.
“Where’s Wade?” I asked with a brittle edge to my voice.
“He had to check on something for work,” she said. “He’ll be back later.”
I actually didn’t want to be around her. If she hadn’t been so adamant about the chimps, if she hadn’t upset him so much, maybe Tommy wouldn’t be in the position he was in. I felt like someone had drilled holes into my mind, allowing for extra bolts of pain. But maybe I had a part to play in it as well. If I hadn’t brought him to say goodbye to the chimps . . . Maybe he wouldn’t have gotten so upset. Guilty feelings stormed through me.
“Nothing’s changed,” I said gravely, then left the room, my pulse racing. Especially, you.
A minute later, I nearly collided into the one person I never thought I’d see again, and then a whole lot changed.
Chapter 20
Rachel.
I fell back against a wall and gasped, not believing my eyes as I blinked and shook my head. Hair down on her shoulders, wearing jeans and a blue blouse, the troubled look on her pale face told me how badly she was feeling. I stared at her as if she were a resurrected body. My hands grew slick and I gasped again, gawked at her. “I thought you’d be in Africa by now. Or at least flying there.”
Her face was red, and she sniffed and wiped her nose. “How is he?” she asked.
“The doctors are saying wait and see. There’s nothing for us to do. It’s horrible. What can I say?” I swallowed hard. “You didn’t go to Africa?”
“I couldn’t.”
“Why not?” I blinked at her, still finding it hard to believe that she was standing in front of me.
“Not after I received your text.” She took a long breath, her hands shaking. “I got it while I was sitting on the plane in SF before it took off for Tunisia. I dropped my phone, I was so surprised. The next thing I know, I’m grabbing my bag and telling the stewardess I need to get off—emergency.”
“But what about your opportunity? National Geographic and all that? Your research?”
She shook her head. “I postponed. I called them up and told them what was going on, that I had a friend whose son was in a coma, that I was too shaken up by it all, and they totally understood. They said I could come at a later date. I mean, Tommy. Jesus! I’m a mess of nerves now anyway. I can’t do anything until I know what’s going to happen. Besides, I’d be miserable. I couldn’t be in Africa with Tommy in a coma. Are you kidding me? Now, is there anything I can do to help? Anything at all?”
“God, Rachel,” I said, the words flowing out of me as we hugged. “I’m so glad you’re here.”
I became a fountain of emotions, joyous, happy, a sense of warmth flowing through my chest. My ally in all this was back. I wasn’t alone anymore.
* * *
Actually, there was something she could do to help me out.
At 3 a.m. the next morning, I awoke with a start. I was lying on my cot next to Tommy’s bed, when it hit me.
My plan. I had to try it. It was so simple, and yet, it seemed filled with possibilities.
I threw on some jeans and a shirt and shoes and raced out of the hospital, literally ran two blocks down the street, and knocked on the door of Rachel’s hotel room. She was staying at a Hilton. I had to tell her. I didn’t care what time it was.
“Look,” I said, as soon as she let me in. My hair was disheveled. I was out of breath. I’d been wearing the same jeans and blue shirt for the last two days. There was a coffee stain on the shirt. I didn’t care. She was in a pink nightgown.
“What is it, Chris?” she asked.
I swallowed, gathering my thoughts. “What if Tommy heard chimp voices played to him through headphones?” My voice grew excited the more I thought about it. “What if he could hear his friends speaking to him right in his ears? We’ll record Obo, Mikey, Rose, SeeSaw, the whole gang of chimps at Weller on an mp3. If I can’t take him to the chimps, then I’ll bring the chimps to him. What do you think?”
“Let’s do it,” Rachel said quickly. The redness in her eyes told me she’d been crying. “I think it’s a great idea! I’ll download some files into a recorder and bring it over first thing in the morning. I’ll add some Gibbons singing in a forest too. They sound beautiful.”
And then, around eleven that morning, Rachel rushed to meet me in the lobby of the hospital, carrying an mp3 player. She looked mournful, on the verge of tears, red-faced.
“Thank you,” I said. We hugged for a moment, bodies close, and I felt swept away by her nearness. Then I rushed the mp3 player up to a young nurse who was attending to Tommy. She placed the player on the stand next to Tommy’s bed. She then carefully slipped headphones over his ears. I watched as the nurse turned on the player and then chimp sounds that Rachel had recorded flowed through the headphones: their chatter, their cries, their shrieks.
Surely, if anything was going to bring him back to life, it would be the chimps.
But when the hour recording played out and nothing happened, my spirits fell. Tommy lay still as ever. Comatose. His face white, barely breathing.
“Again,” I said to the nurse. “Please. We’ll play it until we wear this thing out.”
Cheryl looked like a wreck when she entered the room. Her pale, hollowed-out face and sad eyes said it all. She rubbed her stomach and then twisted her hands in front of her.
“What are you doing?” she asked. Her weary voice was distant, full of sadness.
“I’m playing chimp sounds into his ears.” I didn’t care what she said or thought. There was no way she was going to stop me.
“Chimp sounds?”
“Yes, their voices. I want Tommy to hear them.”
Instead of getting a negative reaction, she surprised me. She touched my shoulder as tears swelled in her eyes. “Okay. Fine. I’ll do anything at this point.”
I kept playing the sounds again and again throughout the rest of the day and into the evening. Doctors and nurses came in and out, checking machines, and reading graphs.
Five hours later, I was still standing next to the bed, playing the chimp sounds in an automatic loop of desperation.
“Tommy! Do you hear the chimps?” My voice boomed, deep and resonant, as my limbs shook and I barely contained a scream. “Tommy! Can you hear the chimps? Can you move a finger, a toe? Anything? Tell Daddy that you hear your friends! Can you tell me?”
Still, Tommy remained silent as ever. Lost to me.
Lost.
* * *
And then, before I even knew it, an entire week had passed. Nothing had changed. This was the week from hell. But I wasn’t going to give up. I was going to keep on playing those recordings no matter what. Then, five days later, on a rainy Friday morning, thunder breaking all around, Dr. Whitaker called Cheryl and me into a wood-paneled conference room on the second floor.
I knew what this was about. My stomach churned, my chest tightened into a fist as I walked into the room and sat down in a chair across from Dr. Whitaker. I started hyperventilating, quick, shallow breaths that forced my shoulders to rise and fall.
Cheryl was weeping softly, covering her face with her hands, as she sat down next to me.
The room was wood-paneled with large medical textbooks lining the bookshelves. Titles like: Endothelial Management, and Vasodilation of Arterial Nerves. There were two pictures on the wall, artwork of hunting scenes.
Dr. Whitaker’s grim expression told me the entire story.
“Thank you for coming,” he said. His lugubrious voice only frightened me more. “I’m waiting on two other people to join us.”
I nodded. Cheryl continued weeping, her hands on her stomach. I’d asked her if she wanted Wade to join us, but she’d said no. This was between Tommy’s biological parents; I agreed.
Finally, two men entered the room. One was tall and grey-haired, sixtyish, and he in
troduced himself as Dr. Edgar Cornwell, hospital administrator. The other man was a social worker named Adam Hudson. Shorter with bony facial features, he gazed at me, then Cheryl through soft brown eyes. He clutched a large brown folder and placed it on the table in front of him. I stared at that folder as if it were a bomb. The two men took their seats around the table.
As soon as Hudson began pulling out papers from the folder, Cheryl bent forward, her shoulders shaking as she sobbed. I reached for her hand and she grabbed it and squeezed. We looked at each other and suddenly, it was as if a wall broke down between us. All our old differences fell away, melted down. Her hand was my last remaining support system, its flesh, its bones, holding me up. And I was hers.
I recalled when she’d let go of my hand at Dr. Garman’s office, the day when we’d first learned of Tommy’s diagnosis. Tommy was two years old then.
“Your son is on the autism spectrum,” Dr. Garman had said. “I’m so sorry to have to tell you this.”
I’d tasted acid in my throat just hearing that word.
When Cheryl had let go of my hand that day, it was as if she had let go of us, our relationship, so that she could give her all to Tommy. It wasn’t hard to tell what our future would be.
But now, we’d come full circle.
“When someone has been in a coma as long as your son has, twelve days now,” Dr. Whitaker said. I was unable to meet his eyes. “Unfortunately, you see, the brain begins to deteriorate. As it loses oxygen, the brain reaches a point where we must question the future quality of life. Therefore, we need to make certain recommendations and create a management team for all kinds of likelihoods. It’s hospital policy. I hope you understand.”
“Don’t people stay in comas for years?” I asked, “and then they suddenly, you know, come out of it?”
“Well, you hear of isolated cases,” Dr. Cornwell said, as he shifted in his chair, his tone of voice even and calm, “miracles, really. But the reality is that when the brain succumbs to the comatose state, it can tend to lose certain basic functions that are beyond re-vitalization.”