Майкл Корита - If She Wakes

Rick, with his relentless What is your intention for this day? mantras, his vegan diet, and his awful taste in music — lyrics were an unfortunate interruption of melody, he always said — connected with Martha Beckley in a way no one else had been able to, and that was enough to make him tolerable to her daughters. Because while Mom’s obvious vulnerability was to medications, not men, there were always plenty of the latter. The construction accident that had claimed her husband’s life, taking from Tara a father that she scarcely remembers, left Martha Beckley both a psychological wreck and a wealthy woman.

Rick has been a good influence for Mom, an absolute relief in some ways, but Tara has never completely trusted him, and she certainly doesn’t like the sound of the statement The truth is always progress. He’s preparing her mother to hear a truth that will be hard to take, and he wants her to believe that it’s progress.

“Why don’t we let the doctor tell us what progress is,” Shannon snaps.

Get him, Shannon, Tara thinks.

Sometimes Mom will joke about her “guard daughters.” Mom thinks of it as a joke, at least, but Shannon and Tara take it literally. When Dad died, their lives became a revolving door of people offering help and people seeking to take advantage. Shannon, the older and the alpha, led most of the battles. Now, voiceless, motionless, helpless, Tara can only hope that her sister redirects that same fury to fight on her behalf. You are a redheaded Doberman, she’d told Shannon once. It was a joke then. Now, though, she needs the guard dog.

Do not listen, Shannon. Do not let anyone convince you that I’m just a body, mindless and soulless in here. Please, oh, please do not let them convince you of that.

Dr. Pine studies the three of them and then says, “I really wish she could blink.”

Tara’s heart drops. Why did he have to start there? Why did he have to start with what she can’t do and not with what she might be able to do — listen, watch, think! And twitch her damn thumb every now and then.

“Based on my reading, that can often take time,” Shannon says. “We’re not even a week into this.”

“Correct. I didn’t say it was cause to lose hope; I simply said that I wish she demonstrated a blink response. She’s so far ahead in so many ways, you know. Breathing without assistance is, on its own, unusual in these circumstances, and encouraging. The question of awareness, however, would be helped by a blink response.” Dr. Pine shrugs. “But it hardly means the battle is lost. Tara’s brain was banged around the inside of her skull, quite literally pulled from its moorings. That caused bruising and swelling; blood vessels were torn and axons stretched. Critical communication regions were damaged. As you know, this is what the induced coma was designed to mitigate — it decreases the amount of work the brain has to do, which keeps the swelling down, and we have a better chance at restoring these processing areas.”

“But it didn’t work,” Rick says, and Tara wishes that it was her middle finger that could twitch instead of her thumb.

“We don’t know if it worked yet, ” Shannon corrects, and Dr. Pine nods.

“Yes and yes. This is, of course, going to be a possibly long and certainly painful process. Each coma patient is different. Some make remarkable recoveries and fairly swiftly. Others make less complete recoveries and over much longer periods.” Pause. “Others do not recover at all.”

Shannon looks at Tara, and Tara does her damnedest to call up a sister-to-sister radio signal. She is certain that such a thing exists. There are some people who hear you without words. Shannon has always heard her, and Tara needs her now. Oh, how she needs her now.

“There’s a coma researcher at the university hospital eleven miles from here,” Shannon says. “A doctor named—”

“Michelle Carlisle,” Dr. Pine finishes. “Yes. I know her well. An excellent research doctor.”

It feels like there’s something slightly diminishing in the way he says research doctor, as if he’s indicating the difference between practice and theory with a mild shift in tone.

“I’d like to take Tara to see her,” Shannon says.

Rick says, “I think we need to let Dr. Pine make those decisions, Shannon.”

Shannon doesn’t so much as glance at him. “Of course I want to consult with Dr. Pine while we make these decisions.”

Dr. Pine adjusts his glasses and then closes his notebook. The gestures seem designed to delay the inevitable — he’s going to say there’s no point.

“I’m a fan of Dr. Carlisle’s work,” he says at last.

“It’s another opinion,” Mom says, “and that’s good, but we haven’t heard yours yet.”

Her voice trembles, but Tara is almost painfully proud of her for speaking up.

“Every case is different,” Dr. Pine says again, a hedge that no one, even Tara, wants to hear.

“Scale of one to ten,” Rick says.

“Pardon?”

“On a scale of one to ten, how... how close to dead is she?”

“Rick, you asshole, ” Shannon says, whirling on him. “What kind of question is that?”

“A fair one,” he replies, standing firm. “Dr. Pine has treated hundreds of patients in similar conditions. He has an opinion, and I’d like to hear it. We all need to hear it.”

No, we do not, Tara thinks.

Dr. Pine looks at each of them individually. Tara is last. His eyes are on hers when he says, “On a scale of one to ten, if one is the most alive, then physically she’s probably a two or three. She needs assistance, of course, but her body is healthy and it will continue to survive, though obviously not to thrive, for the foreseeable future.”

“And what about the soul?” Rick says, and Shannon rolls her eyes on cue.

“I think he means her mind, Doctor. Is she with us?”

More than any of you want to know, Tara thinks, because they’ve all had moments in front of her that she is sure they wouldn’t have wanted her to witness. Moments when their love was buried beneath fatigue and frustration. She doesn’t blame them for this, but it doesn’t make those moments any less hurtful.

“I’d encourage more tests.”

“But right now? What would you say based on the tests you’ve already done?” Rick presses.

“Eight,” Dr. Pine answers without hesitation. “Based on what we’ve already done.”

Eight. On a scale of one to ten, he is rating Tara’s brain as far closer to dead than alive.

“Then we’ll do more,” Shannon says, but there’s a hitch in her voice.

Everyone’s faith is beginning to waver.

Not fair, Tara thinks. I was just giving a ride to a stranger. Why isn’t he trapped like this instead of me?

But Oltamu is worse off than her, of course. Oltamu is dead; she’s heard them say this.

Maybe the wolf got him.

If she could shake her head, she’d do it just to get rid of that strange recurring image of the wolf with raised hackles and narrowed eyes and pinned-back ears and exposed fangs. That wasn’t real, and Tara can’t afford to have any distractions in a brain that’s already failing to do its job. She’s got tests to take, and if she can’t pass them, she’s going to end up just like Oltamu.

Don’t think that way. Once you start that, you’re done.

A voice whispers that she is already done, that it is time to give up, give in, quit. She fights it off.

Oltamu is dead; Tara Beckley is not. Tara Beckley is alive and not only that, her thumb has twitched.

She thinks again of the cellar in 1804 London Street, where she once stood in the blackness, gasping, cobwebs on her face, tears in her eyes. She remembers that in that moment of panic, she turned her head to face that darkness directly, and she found the faintest glimmer of light. It was a long way off, and she wasn’t sure that she could make it there or if freedom existed beyond it, but she had seen it, and she had tried.