Another swig and I was soon down below the salmon hatcheries, alone as the sunlight began leaking into the sky at dawn. With no water flowing down from the dam, the river had become a beaded string of dark ponds. I hobbled on the riverbed boulders, my balance gone. The Scotch bottle broke. And in that breaking, I looked to a pool behind a rock, a large deep river pool. There I saw a thousand salmon waiting to spawn, unable to swim upriver, trapped together, this clump of eggplant-purple salmon whose only wish, whose only yearning, was to go home. These salmon mulled within the stilled pool—a deep dark voluptuous brain—fluttering at the edges like black apple blossoms. The fish were dreaming of sex and the death that comes afterward.
The whiskey caught me. I had to vomit, so I turned around and retched into a pile of stones. I hopscotched on the rocks a bit farther down the river and tripped and fell, knocking my head on a boulder. Woozy, I laid down on my stomach, my head propped and looking into the water. The sky was brightening, and I rubbed my skull.
I looked at the pale blue sky. I saw trees the color of Karen’s eyes. A seagull screeched, a heron jumped up, and water trickled down. I remembered an old thought: When I was young, my father always ensured that the family would visit the killer whales in the Stanley Park Aquarium once every year. It was his way of letting us know that our city lay beside the ocean and we lived where we did only by Nature’s good grace. The aquarium wasn’t as crowded then as it became in later years; one could easily ask the whale tenders if one could touch the whales—their bright white leather spots, their black dorsals packed with steel, and their teeth of sharpened ivory drills circling meaty, clean pink tongues the size of a tabletop, swallowing buckets of platinum fish at one go. A decade later, when it became my own turn to take Megan to visit the whales, I discovered that Megan had already decided penning whales in a zoo was cruel—animal prison. She became an avid follower of any newspaper information about whales being captured or released, which struck a chord in me. One of my own stray childhood fears had been to wonder what a whale might feel like had it been born and bred in captivity, then released into the wild—into its ancestral sea—its limited world instantly blowing up when cast into the unknowable depths, seeing strange fish and tasting new waters, not even having a concept of depth, not knowing the language of any whale pods it might meet. It was my fear of a world that would expand suddenly, violently, and without rules or laws: bubbles and seaweed and storms and frightening volumes of dark blue that never end. I mention this as I consider what happened next in my life and as I consider the changes that followed.
A bird trilled above. I blinked and paused, and then I cried, because I knew that at that same moment three miles away in a cryptlike hospital room Karen was blinking, too—that after 6,719 days of sleep, she had just awakened.
PART 2
15
NO IMPERIAL CHILDREN
Imagine that for an unknown reason you have begun to rapidly lose your memory. You now no longer know what month it is, say, or what type of car you drive, or the season or the food in your refrigerator or the names of the flowers. Quickly, quickly your memory freezes—a tiny perfect iceberg, all memories frozen, locked. Your family. Your sex. Your name—all of it: turned into a silent ice block. You are free of memory: You now look at the world with the eyes of an embryo, not knowing, only seeing and only hearing. Then suddenly the ice melts, your memory begins returning. The ice is in a pond—it thaws and the water warms and water lilies grow from your memories and fish swim within them. You are you.
And so here we have Karen, asleep for seventeen years, ten months, and seventeen days. Above Karen stands a nurse who changes her J-tube. This nurse has been changing J-tubes for a dozen years. She looks down at Karen and feels nothing and thinks of other things—her choir practice that night, a wool coat she saw on sale at the Bay.
The nurse remembers that Karen will most likely die shortly from her pneumonia—no heroics. Really? She seems to have recovered rather well from the illness that brought her in. She pauses and looks more closely at Karen: poor thing—nearly killed off this time. Back to Inglewood and then what? Better dead than alive. No love, no past, no future, no present, no sex. A sad thing. Half a person. Yet even now, almost seventeen years later, prettiness is evident from Karen’s bones. What she has missed in life! The nurse looks away from Karen’s face and resumes J-tube procedure.
Then the nurse hears a voice, gentle, husky, girlish, and direct, like pumice rubbing on pumice: “Hello.”
The nurse looks up. Karen rasps hello once more. The nurse sees Karen’s eyes—clean and green as moss, crinkled with crusted sleep in the corners. She sees Karen’s turkey-giblet neck keel sideways on the bed. Karen is immobile, but she speaks: “That tickles.”
The nurse says, “Oh my! Oh … my!” and then dashes from the room. She runs to fetch the doctor on duty—Wendy, Dr. Chernin.
Nurse, comes the thought.
Karen thinks: That was a nurse. I am in a hospital. I … Wait: Who am—I? I am Karen … Where am I? What time is it? Karen loses her grogginess quickly, though; she feels her brain now starting to rev and then backfire like a rib-ticklish Camaro. The last thing Karen remembers is being with Wendy and Pam outside a party on Eyremont Drive—a house-wrecker, a stupid party. She had gone skiing with Richard just before that. They had made love. She remembered giggling with the girls, having a drink, and thinking of maybe telling them about her and Richard. And then she remembers nothing. Why nothing? Karen understands that if she’s in a hospital, she must have passed out, maybe, and badly at that. What did I have—two Valiums? Vodka? Surely not just this … God, what a hangover. Mom to deal with. Oh, God.
Darkness. Darkness headed her way. A dream? She remembers her fear of darkness and her wish that she might sleep forever so as to avoid it—an idle wish gone badly wrong.
She closes her eyes against the early sun now beaming through the window and then opens her eyes and looks down at her body. Oh God—where’s my body?—I can’t feel my legs. I can’t move—I—
She screams weakly and then coughs and can no longer scream. Another nurse enters the room, eyes agog, and Karen hacks out more words: “Water. Please, water.”
Back at the party house of Hillary Markham, most of the guests have gone home. Hillary, still flying on a cocktail of upwardly lifting substances, surveys the comical remains of her party—costume remnants, pumpkin fragments, and dozens of stale, lipsticked wineglasses and bottles of skunked beer. Teddy Liu and Tracy are asleep on the couch; Linus is on the guest room floor along with Hillary’s two cats.
Hillary goes into her bedroom and sees a few coats still lying on the bed, at which point she hears two thunk sounds. Walking into her bathroom, she finds Hamilton lying on the floor, bone-white, jaws agape; Pam is in the bathtub, head leaning sideways, hair flowing over the tub’s rim. She is as white as Hamilton. There’s not even time for panic. What to do? What to do? Teddy! Teddy Liu—paramedic! She runs into the living room and screams and kicks awake Teddy from sleep inside his race-car driver’s costume. Within a minute, Hamilton and Pam have been hooked up to drips going into their arms containing Narcan, an anti-opiate drug, and D5W solution. Breathing apparatuses are installed, and they lurch off to Lions Gate Hospital.
Almost immediately, the two emerge from their all-too-deep sleep. “You stupid bastard, Teddy,” Hamilton shouts. “That was the best fucking high I’ve ever had. Why the hell did you go and fuck it up?”
“Sticks and stones.”
“Teddy—where are we?” Pam moans.
“You’re both on the way to Lions Gate,” Teddy says.
“Oh, shit,” says Pam. “It was feeling so good.”
“Linus, is that you?” asks Pam.
“Yup.”
“Tell these bastards to sod off.”
Karen’s nurse knows that Karen is somebody close to Dr. Wendy Chernin—family? She notifies the nursing desk about Karen, then speeds down to Emergency where Dr. Chernin is on call. “Dr. Che
rnin,” she puffs, “your friend!”
Wendy, preoccupied with two gurneys rattling into Emergency, says, “I know, I know.”
The nurse is confused: “But …”
Wendy, the paramedics, and the two bodies on gurneys zip by, followed by a stringy-looking young man the nurse recognizes from a Christmas party as Dr. Chernin’s husband. As well, there’s a teenage girl dressed all in black, perhaps as a witch for Halloween, eyes darkened out like the old glamour days of Alice Cooper.
The first gurney carries a serene blond woman, a bluish shade of white underneath an asphyxiator; the face looks familiar—magazines? TV? The nurse has seen celebrities here before. No big deal. On the other gurney lies a thirtyish man with some dreadful skin disease. AIDS? He is the sickest-looking admitted patient this nurse has ever seen. He is also screaming at the top of his lungs, telling everybody to fuck off and demanding more heroin. The nurse asks the paramedic what has happened, and she receives a reply—one that is, by 1997, all too common: “China White. OD’d at a Halloween party.” The nurse now understands that the sick-looking man is wearing makeup. A dreadful costume.
The gurney moves on and the stringy-looking man, Dr. Chernin’s husband, speaks to the young witch: “Megan, what are you doing here? How in hell did you know about this?”
Megan says, “I only came down here to help Jenny Tyrell get a morning-after pill. She drove me. And then I just saw you guys come in. So—what is it? What’s wrong?”
“They’re toasted on heroin,” Linus says.
“Oh, wow. Hey! Aunt Wendy, Wendy quick, tell me, are they gonna die? For real? That China White—”
“Megan, we’ll talk later.” Wendy turns around and talks to an orderly.
Linus tries to imagine the world without Ham and Pam. He feels sick and his stomach burns. He remembers visiting Jared nearly twenty years ago, and he thinks of Karen in Inglewood all these years, her blank eyes focused on death and nothingness. Poor Richard, having to live with that forever. The hospital is a place where lives come to an end. This is a place that erases hope. He admires Wendy so much for having the guts to work in such a place, for being an emergency specialist.
How long had they been shooting up? Idiots. Fuck ‘em. Pam and Ham clank into Intensive Care. They are injected, pumped, and probed; new IV’s are inserted, more Narcan administered. Wendy is frustrated because there is no single test to administer to heroin OD’s that can tell her where she stands. No CAT scans, white blood cell counts, or T4S—she never really knows: Is this person lost?
The heads are moved back and forth—the “Doll’s Eye” procedure—to check the neurological system.
The poorly breathing bodies are briefly put into the ventilator. They’re fine and will be sleeping for a few hours. The worst is over and Wendy emerges. They’ll make it, Wendy says. And then she, Megan, and Linus sit in the lobby trying to relax after the close call. The thought of losing two more lifelong friends is more frightening than they could have imagined. Cold air puffs in from outside and they shiver. Wendy feels as if she has an icicle embedded in her spine from the small of her back and into her brain. She is now off duty for the night. Meanwhile, the nurse from Karen’s floor approaches the trio and says, “Dr. Chernin, I really have to tell you …”
“Yes?” Wendy tries to hide her weariness and relaxes her chest. “I’m out of line. What did you need?”
“I thought you should know that your friend is talking now.”
“Talking? She should be out cold for the next four hours—and then some. We gave them seda—”
“No. No. Not those friends. That … old friend of yours. The one in a coma. She’s up in 7-E. Karen.”
Wendy turns around to Linus and Megan and their bodies curdle; small hairs on the necks prickle; their arms become weightless. They have entered a mesmerizing and frightening realm. The nurse says, “You must know the girl—she’s been in a coma for fifteen years now. Karen.”
“Seventeen,” says Linus instantly. Megan feels like vomiting.
“She said hello to me twice. Her eyes were clear and intelligent. She’s all there, all right.”
Wendy looks at her friends; glances are exchanged. Linus’s brain empties as though passing through a trapdoor in the floor. Within moments, the three race down the ozone corridor and then endure a long, tense elevator ride. Nobody speaks, and a few breaths later they arrive in Karen’s room, now buzzing with staff. Karen is crying. Someone is about to give her a sedative, and Wendy grabs the needle and throws it into the trash. “No. Don’t do that. Jesus. That’s how she ended up here in the first place. No drugs of any sort. None. Ever. Everybody—out … out!” Everybody clears the room save for her, Megan, and Linus. Wendy says, “Karen. It’s me. Wendy. I’m here, honey.”
Karen raises her eyes, her hysteria dwindling: “Wendy? Is that you, Wendy?”
Wendy walks forward, kneels down, and puts her left arm on Karen’s shoulder. She then wipes her eyes with the other hand. “Hey, Karen? Yeah—it’s me, Wendy. I’m here, girl.” Wendy has been a doctor long enough to know that Karen’s awakening is a miracle. She tries to keep her composure as she has done throughout her life, but now she isn’t sure she can do it.
“Wendy—what happened to me—my body—I can’t move. I can’t see any of it. What the hell’s happened?”
“You’ve been asleep for a long time, Karen. A coma. Don’t worry. You’ll get your body back. Soon.” Wendy is hoping that her face doesn’t betray this last lie.
“Oh, Wendy. I’m glad you’re …” Karen closes her eyes. Several breaths later, she reopens them. Her eyes dart sideways. “Is that Linus?” Karen’s voice is rasping, like beard stubble rubbing on paper. Linus comes over and sits beside Wendy.
“Hey there, Karen. Welcome home.” He kisses her forehead. Karen lies there and looks into the eyes of her friends. They are older. Much older. This is not right.
“My body,” Karen says. “Where’s my body?” She cries once more. “I’m a fucking pretzel.”
“Shhh,” Wendy says. “You’ve been gone a long time. You will get your body back. You will. I’m a doctor now. We missed you, honey. We missed you so badly.”
Karen looks about, her eyes darting. She asks Linus how old she is now. “You’re thirty-four, Kare.”
“Thirty-four. Oh, God.”
Linus says, “Don’t worry, Kare—your twenties suck. Believe me, be glad you missed them.” “Linus, what year is it?”
“It’s 1997. Saturday, November the first, 1997, 6:05 A.M.” “Oh. Oh, God. Oh, my! My family—how’s my family?” “All fine. Alive and well.” “And Richard?”
“Pretty good. In good shape. He’s visited you once a week all these years.”
She focuses on Megan, standing by the door. “And you—you by the door. I—I think I know you.”
“No,” Megan says. Megan feels bashful for one of the few times in her life.
“Come here,” Karen says, because there is something about this teenager that Karen has been told—by whom? She remembers the Moon. She remembers talking to Richard on the Moon. Bullshit. Nonsense. “Come here. Please.” Megan meekly shuffles forward, nearly paralyzed with hope, anticipation, sickness, and fear. Karen looks over Megan calmly. “You’re related to me—aren’t you?” Megan nods. “A sister?”
“No.”
Karen is now understanding just how long she’s been gone. She focuses on Megan as though she were a difficult algebra equation. Her brows knit. “What’s your name?”
“Megan.”
Karen thinks out loud: “Mom had a daughter once—a miscarriage. 1970? The name was Megan.”
Megan buckles. She walks to the bed and hops onto its metal rick-etiness and lies down beside her mother as she did the first time she met her. She places her face directly before Karen’s and they look at each other, retina to retina, brain to brain. Who is this creature? Karen is now calm about this scenario. She knows that answers will come. She says to Megan, “You’re very pret
ty, you know,” to which Megan sniffles, saying, “I am not.”
Karen asks, “And I’ve never seen makeup like yours, either. Concert last night?”
“I wear it all the time. If you want I’ll take it off. I really will.” She gouges her palms into the eyes.
“Stop,” croaks Karen. “Stop.”
Megan is trembling. “I took your makeup off once, too,” Megan says. “The first time I ever saw you. I was seven.”
Karen is silent. She pauses and looks at the ceiling and sighs and meditates: This must surely be a sister, but she says she isn’t. And she looks like Richard. “How’s Mom and Dad?”
The floodgates open: “I—I’ve been a … a … real shit to them. I’m a horrible person. And you’re awake. Mom—my real Mom.”
Karen is unable to move her neck, but her eyes are focused deeply on the boo-hooing teenager clutched against her right side. “I never thought you’d wake up. And now you have and I see I’ve just been horrible to everybody.” Megan uses her tears to wipe off her eyeliner and kohl. Her eye sockets are a mess.
“Shhhh …” whispers Karen. “It’s over now. All over. I’m here.” Karen thinks over this outburst. Mom? “Megan, did you call me Mom?”
“Yeah. Because you are. My mom, I mean.”
Karen is faint: “What are you talking abou— Oh, man.” That night with Richard on Grouse Mountain? This is not possible.
“I’ve wanted to talk to you all these years. Did you like punk rock? It’s coming back in now.”
This last comment distracts Karen. Suddenly, Megan is off on a tangent discussing the Buzzcocks and Blondie. Karen, meanwhile, assembles pieces. She notices the absence of a mirror in the room. Hair that has fallen into her face tells her she has gone gray. In spite of her bedridden condition and seventeen-year-old mind, she knows that she is going to have to be the mature one here.
Girlfriend in a Coma: A Novel Page 11