Robin Wasserman - Frozen

But the waiting room was empty. We stayed where we were.

“Your boyfriend’s heart stopped.”

“He’s not my boyfriend,” I said automatically.

I have never hated myself more than I did in that silent moment after the words were out. There was nothing I could do to take them back.

“Okay, well…” In that pause, I could tell. The doctor hated me too. “Your friend’s heart stopped. He was technically dead for about two hours.”

Was. I held tight to the verb tense.

“But we were lucky that the body temperature was already so low….” The doctor shook his head. “I don’t know how he managed to last as long as he did in water that cold, but it’s made our job a bit easier.”

The water was too cold, I thought.

My fault, I thought.

No one forced him to jump in after me, I told myself. No one forced him to stay.

But I knew better.

“We’ll keep his temp down to slow his metabolism, and keep reperfusion as gradual as possible—resume oxygen supply too quickly and brain cells start dying, but if we do it slowly, we should be able to preserve a substantial amount of brain function.”

“What does that mean?” I asked. “Substantial.”

“It means we’ll know more when he wakes up.”

“But he will wake up? When?”

“That’s still to be determined,” the doctor said slowly. “But, yes, in cases like this, we’re optimistic for a cognitive recovery.”

“You mean he’ll be okay,” I said eagerly.

The doctor looked uncomfortable.

“You said recovery,” I reminded him. “You said optimistic.”

“I said cognitive recovery. We have every reason to hope that his brain might emerge from this intact. But his body… I’m told you were there, so you must know. The weight of the water crashing down on him, at the speed it was falling, and the rocks… There are impact injuries, crush injuries. He took quite a beating.” The doctor shook his head. “The extent of the damage…”

“You can fix it,” I said. “He has plenty of credit, enough for anything. You have to fix it.”

“There are a lot of things we can fix,” he agreed. “And in cases like this, there are of course”—he paused, then looked pointedly at me. No, not at me. At the body —“other options.”

“Oh.” I looked at the floor. “It’s that bad?”

“It’s bad,” he said. “But I’m afraid I can’t go into more detail until his father arrives. You’re not family, so…”

“Of course. I understand.”

I understood. I wasn’t his family. I wasn’t his girlfriend. I was nothing.

M. Heller arrived an hour or so later, sans wife number two. He blew past me, pushed aside the nurse who tried to stop him from going through the white double doors, and disappeared behind them. When he emerged, a few minutes later, he looked different. He looked old. He slumped down on the closest chair and let himself fall forward, his head toppled over his knees. He was shaking.

But when he looked up to see me standing over him, his eyes were dry.

“M. Heller, I just wanted to say, I don’t know if they told you that I was with Auden when—Well, anyway, I just wanted to say I’m sorry, and I hope—”

“Get out,” he said flatly.

“What?”

“I don’t want you here. Get out.”

“M. Heller, look, I’m not trying to upset you, but your son and I—”

“What?” he said fiercely, like he was daring me to keep going. “My son and you what ?”

“Nothing,” I said quietly. I didn’t have any words.

“He’s my son ,” M. Heller’s voice trembled on the word. “And they’re telling me he might—” His face went very still for a moment. “I can’t look at you right now. Please go.”

He didn’t have to explain. I got it. They were telling him his son might die—or worse. Might become like me.

And didn’t I know? That kind of thing could ruin a father’s life.

I backed away. But I didn’t leave. I just sat down on the other side of the waiting room. M. Heller didn’t object. He acted like he didn’t notice. So he sat on one side of the room, staring at the floor. I sat on the other side, staring at the wall. And we did what the room was meant for.

We waited.

A couple hours later they let M. Heller see him. No one said anything to me.

The day passed. I left my parents a message, the obligatory assurance I was still alive. They didn’t need to know any more than that. M. Heller disappeared behind the white doors for hours. Still no one told me anything. No one on the staff would speak to me. Until finally the doctor I recognized appeared again. I grabbed him as he passed. “What’s happening? Is he awake? Can I see him?”

The doctor rubbed the back of his neck. “I’m sorry, but the patient’s father has insisted that he not have any visitors.”

At least I knew he was still alive.

“Can you at least tell me how he’s doing?”

“M. Heller has also…” The doctor sighed and shook his head. “I’m afraid I’m not allowed to give out any more information about the patient’s status.”

“Not to anyone?” I asked, already suspecting the answer. “Or…?”

“Not to you.”

I wanted to scream. I wanted to break something. Like M. Heller’s neck. Or even the doctor’s, since he was closer at hand. But instead I just sat down again, like a good little girl, following the rules.

I waited.

I waited for M. Heller to change his mind. It didn’t happen. So then I changed my strategy. I waited for him to leave or fall asleep or eat. Because he would have to do one of them eventually. He had needs.

I didn’t.

A day passed, and a night, and it was nearly dawn again when a nurse escorted M. Heller back into the waiting room. She stayed close, as if expecting him to stumble or to lose the ability to hold himself up. Lean on me , she projected, shoulders sturdy and ready to carry the burden. But he stayed upright. Separate and unruffled, like nothing could touch him. His eyes skimmed over me as if I wasn’t there.

“I’ll be back with his things,” I heard him say, hesitating in the doorway. “You’re sure it’s—”

“It’s okay,” she assured him. “Go home and get a little sleep. Save your strength. He’s going to need it.”

M. Heller nodded. It took him a moment too long to raise his head again. “And you’ll let me know if anything… changes.”

“Immediately,” she said. “Go.”

He left. Which meant I just had to choose my moment. Wait until no one was watching. Then slip through the white doors. Find Auden’s room. Find Auden. See for myself, whatever it was. Even if it was something I didn’t want to see.

I waited.

He was asleep.

At least, he looked like he was asleep. His eyes were closed. That was almost all I could see of his face: his eyes. The rest was covered with bandages. It didn’t look like Auden. It barely looked like a human being, not with all the tubes feeding in and out of every orifice and the regenerative shielding stretching across his torso and definitely not with the metal scaffolding encasing his head like a birdcage. Four rigid metal rods sprouted from a padded leather halter that stretched around his shoulders and collarbone. They connected to a thin metal band that circled his skull. Slim silver bits dug into his forehead at evenly spaced points, pinching the skin and holding the contraption in place. A bloody smear spread over his left eyebrow, and I tried not to imagine someone drilling the metal bit into his skull. I wondered if he’d been awake, if it had hurt; if it still hurt. I didn’t want to know what it was for.