Douglas Kennedy: Woman in the Fifth

Her bed was at the end of the unit. That meant walking past patient after patient, all unconscious, all looking submerged by wiring, monitors, probes, drips and a spaghetti junction of tubes. When I reached Megan’s bed, I felt as if I had been kicked in the stomach. There was nothing different about all the apparatus engulfing her. It was simply the realization that this was my little girl, being kept alive by all this medical paraphernalia, including a ventilator that let out an ominous whish as it regulated her breathing. Her long blond hair had been hidden inside a white surgical cap — but her face, though bruised, was, as always, angelic. Susan was seated slumped in a chair, looking more tired than I had ever seen her. Her face was drawn, her shoulders hunched, her eyes sunken, her nails ravaged. A man in a white coat was talking to her in a calm voice. I approached Susan and put my arm around her shoulder. She reacted stiffly to this — no hello or greeting, and she quietly disengaged herself from my attempt at a supportive hug …

something the doctor noticed immediately.

‘This is Megan’s father,’ Susan said tonelessly.

I shook his hand and introduced myself. His name was Barry Clyde. A guy in his late thirties. Calm, considerate, if a little professionally distanced.

‘I was just telling Susan that Megan has suffered what could be described in layman’s terms as a deep concussion which has been coupled with a certain amount of brainstem trauma. The MRI showed considerable bruising on the brain stem. The good news is that such bruising does dissipate and can be followed by a gradual recovery. The more tentative, difficult news is that she continues to be unable to respond to stimuli. Frankly, this has us worried. It could be that the concussion is so pervasive she simply has to heal first before emerging from this comatose state. But — and I must be direct with you about this — it could also be that she has suffered far more profound neurological damage and might be in this absent state for … well, it’s hard to gauge how long this could go on for.’

‘Is there a chance she might die?’ I asked.

‘All her other vital signs are good, her heart is immensely strong and the brain is getting all the oxygen it needs. So, no, death is not an immediate worry. But — and again I must outline the worst for you, just so you can be prepared — a persistent vegetative state might continue indefinitely. That, I should add, is the worst-case scenario …’

I bowed my head and closed my eyes and felt tears sting them. The doctor touched my shoulder. ‘Please don’t give up hope. The brain is an extraordinarily mysterious organ and can frequently recover from serious trauma. Time will tell.’

He left us alone. We both stood there, in front of the daughter we made together, saying nothing. When Susan started to break down again and I tried to take her hand, she pushed it away, saying, ‘I don’t want — need — your comfort.’

‘OK,’ I said quietly. ‘How about a cup of coffee?’

‘You just got here and you immediately want to go out for a coffee? Spend some time with your daughter.’

‘I can’t bear to look at her like that.’

‘Well, get used to it. She’s not coming out of this. I called my brother Fred yesterday. He put me on to a friend of his — a leading neurologist out in the Bay Area. I was able to get everything about Megan’s case emailed to him in San Francisco. He was much more blunt about it than Dr Clyde. “In these sorts of brain-stem trauma cases, there is generally less than a fifteen percent chance that the person will make a full recovery, and more than a fifty percent chance that she will never emerge from that vegetative state.”

‘Fifteen percent isn’t zero—’

‘But it’s shit odds. And I keep telling myself, If only I had driven her to school yesterday. But I was rushing to see my fucking lawyer who’s doing his best to keep me out of jail as well.’

‘Surely the Feds don’t think you had anything to do with Robson’s porn business.’

‘You’ve evidently been kept well informed on my downfall. And it must give you enormous pleasure, under the circumstances.’

‘It gives me no pleasure at all. And let’s not fight in front of Megan.’

‘Why not? She can’t hear us. Even if she could, what would she think? How wonderful it is to have a pair of narcissistic fuck-ups as parents?’

‘I’m sure she’s been terribly torn apart by what’s happened over the last year. But that doesn’t mean she hates us. And if we can somehow make it all up to her—’

‘Listen to you, Mr Bromide, Mr Polly-Fucking-Anna. She’s not coming out of this, Harry. We’ve lost her. And she is the innocent victim in all this. Whereas we …’

Again she started to lose it, grabbing on to the metal railings on Megan’s bed and crying wildly. The attending nurse came marching down the corridor at speed. She put her arm around Susan’s shoulder and led her off back toward the doorway. I stood by the bed and gripped the railings as well, trying not to fall apart, trying to tell myself that I would make this better, that I would get her out of it, no matter what it took.

The nurse returned a few minutes later.

‘Your wife is about to be seen by a doctor. He will probably admit her for nervous exhaustion — and we’ll find her a bed. She’s at breaking point, the poor thing — and who can blame her. If you’d like to see her after the doctor …’

‘I think I’m about the last person she wants to see right now.’

The nurse thought about that for a moment, then said, ‘Is there anything I can get you?’

‘A glass of water, please. And I would like to stay here for a while …’

I sat in front of my daughter’s bed for the next five hours. I held her warm hand, I watched the undulating beeps of the heart monitor and was frequently lulled into nodding off by the metronomic whoosh of the respirator. I sat there, thinking, thinking, thinking. I put my head in my hands. I started to whisper. All right, Margit, I’ll be back with you tomorrow. I will never miss another of our rendezvous again. You’ll have me for as long as you want to have me. Just bring Megan back to us whole.

I nodded off around midday and woke with a start at three. Megan was still motionless, her eyes stock-still. At five I forced myself out of the stiff uncomfortable metal chair. I leaned over and kissed her goodbye. Then I found the nurse on duty and explained that I had to fly back to Paris now, but to tell my wife that I’d be in touch by phone within the next twenty-four hours.

A cab to the airport, an hour-long flight to Chicago, a two-hour stopover, seven and a half hours over the Atlantic: a sleepless night of coughing and sputtering, and I started to have that drowning sensation when the plane made its final approach. Once we were inside the terminal I staggered into a bathroom, bent over a toilet and heaved up clumps of reddish phlegm. Then I threw some water on my face and headed off to Immigration — an experience I was dreading, just in case the cops at the commissariat de police in the Tenth had informed the frontier boys that I was an American whom France could easily do without.

I approached the booth. The cop scanned my passport, glanced at his screen and said, ‘Back again with us?’

‘I like it here.’

‘Are you working?’

‘I’m a writer. I work for myself. So I’m not holding down a job here.’

‘And how long will you be with us this time?’

‘A few weeks,’ I lied. ‘No more.’

Stamp, stamp. I was back in … with a new three-month visa.

The clerk at the hotel on the rue du Dragon smiled and handed me the key as I came in.