Deena Goldstone - Tell Me One Thing

Chet Jewell turned his eyes to Jamie. They were a pale blue, almost gray, and they contained so much bewilderment that Jamie almost got up and left. He didn’t know how to answer the question he saw there. Why? Why?

“Are you a doctor?” is what Chet Jewell said instead.

“No.”

“What is it, then?”

“I thought I might sit with you.”

Chet’s eyes swept the clock mounted on the far wall. “Don’t you have anyplace better to be at two ten in the morning?”

“No.”

“No wife or kids?”

“No.”

And then he swiveled in his chair and really looked at Jamie. “What is all this to you?”

“My sister was driving the car.”

There was a long moment of silence. Jamie had no idea what Chet Jewell might do. Punch him? Toss him across the room? He looked capable of either. Instead, Celeste’s father nodded — he certainly understood grief when he saw it — and then turned his eyes away from Jamie, out the darkened windows that gave back nothing but his own haunted face.

That first night they sat side by side for many hours, until the sun came up and Jamie had to go teach. Neither man spoke, but now there were two sets of eyes to scan the faces of the ICU nurses as they swept past the waiting room, busy, preoccupied. Something About Celeste? each man asked silently, afraid to speak. Not that night.

And throughout the always dangerous predawn hours, when the world seems at its bleakest, Jamie offered what he could — a second body immobile in a chair, a second set of shoulders not quite touching, a second heartbeat to match the first.

AFTER THAT, MORE NIGHTS THAN NOT, Jamie found himself making the twenty-minute drive from his condo to the hospital. Always late at night. Always without much premeditation. Oftentimes when sleep eluded him, he’d get up out of his solitary bed, gather the things he’d need for school the next day — the set of seventh-grade essays he’d graded earlier that evening or the questions for the poetry test he’d be giving his honors class — and make the drive with what he came to acknowledge as a quiet sense of anticipation. The desire has been born in him to sit beside Chet Jewell.

For many nights the men don’t speak. That Chet nods when Jamie shows up and allows him to take the seat beside him is enough. Sometimes Jamie brings in coffee for the two of them, and that is appreciated.

Both men come to know the night nurses who attach the tubes and watch the monitors and change the dressings and respond to the alarms when they go off: Patty Joe, blond and heavy, who is curt with everyone and seems too angry to work in such a tenuous place; Felicia, Filipina, demure and worried, who never makes eye contact with any of the relatives; Sandra, who is built to play basketball and never seems to speak. But it is Tamara they pay the most attention to. Both men sense she is the one who would give them what little information there is about Celeste.

Tamara is small and tidy and efficient, that’s clear. A light brown woman in her forties, she seems confident without being showy. They can pick all that up by watching her work, and their eyes never leave her on the nights she’s on duty, following her as she weaves in and out of patients’ rooms.

When she comes to the door of the waiting room to speak with Chet, she includes Jamie, assuming he is a family member, and no one corrects her. Her updates are usually short, delivered on the fly, but gratefully accepted. “Her temperature is down,” she tells them one night. “Her pupils are responding to light, that’s a good sign,” she tells them a few nights later. The men receive her words with nods and always a “thank you” from Chet but never a question of his own. It is almost as if he feels his only role is to wait and accept. As if what is happening in that ICU is beyond his ability to fully take in. Forming a question would be an impossibility.

Several nights after Jamie begins to sit with Chet, Tamara comes to them one early morning. The sky is lightening out the window, a dove gray, then a slight blush of pink. She sits down, turns her chair to face them both, and Jamie’s heart sinks. Something serious must have happened to Celeste. Tamara never sits down to speak with them. But no, that isn’t it. It’s the seriousness of her instructions that makes her sit down. She tells them that Celeste’s coma is the body’s way of quieting the brain so it can begin its repair. She says they mustn’t lose hope; she’s seen amazing things in her twelve years working the ICU. Both men believe her when she speaks. She has that kind of gravitas.

“Talk to her,” Tamara tells them, “hold her hand and tell her that you’re here. Tell her that you’re not going anywhere and that you’ll be here when she wakes up.”

Chet nods but he doesn’t move. “Now,” she says, “now you need to do that. Come on.” And she prompts him to stand up. “You, too,” she says to Jamie.

“No … I’m not really …” he begins.

“She’s got two hands and there’s two of you.”

Jamie finds himself following the straight back of Chet Jewell into the sedated light of Celeste’s cubicle.

She lies absolutely still. This is what death looks like is Jamie’s first thought, although he knows she isn’t dead. Her chest rises slightly as the machines breathe for her. The electronic screens all record some kind of activity, evidence that the body is alive, if not the mind.

She doesn’t look like her pictures in the papers, of course. Those showed a girl who thought life was an adventure. There was a kind of friendly challenge to the cock of her head, to her open, grinning face. This young woman who lies so undefended in a startlingly white bed seems younger and somehow purified.

Jamie hangs back in the doorway — he doesn’t belong here, he feels — and watches Chet pull a straight-backed chair close to the right side of the bed. The father takes his daughter’s lifeless hand in his two large, callused ones. They are trembling.

“There’s another chair,” Chet says without looking at Jamie, but it is an invitation. Jamie comes into the room and positions a chair close to the other side of Celeste’s bed. That first night he can’t bring himself to reach for Celeste’s hand. He doesn’t have the right. Or the courage.

Chet doesn’t seem to notice. His head is bowed. His eyes are closed. His hands cling to his daughter’s. Softly, he begins to talk, whispering really, a prayer: “Please … please … please … please …”

That night and during the ones to come, over Celeste’s motionless body, the men begin to talk. In hushed voices, haltingly the first few nights, then more expansively. The whisperings of the machines against the quiet, the delicacy of Celeste’s condition, the cocoon of the ICU where the outside world doesn’t exist — all these make confessions possible.

“Her mother left when she wasn’t even two,” Chet begins. “How does a mother leave her own child?”

Jamie shakes his head. He doesn’t know the answer to that.

“She said she didn’t know what she had signed on for. I took that to mean me. And probably life in Montana, on a ranch …” He shrugs. “Maybe that meant being a mother, too. I don’t know. She just left and never came back.”

Chet looks up at Jamie. “Do you know what it is to raise a child? Yours or someone else’s?”

“No.”

“It lifts the spirit. If you’ve got someone like Celeste, it does that.”

Jamie can’t imagine his own father, dead just over a year now, embracing anything resembling Chet’s sentiments. To Hugh O’Connor, his eight children were lumped together as “the little shits,” and he made it clear that they were a drain and a trouble and a cause of endless fury for their multiple shortcomings. The beatings the four boys endured for most of their growing up were their own damn faults, Hugh maintained, instead of the heedless cruelty Jamie has come to understand them to be. So this notion that raising a child “lifts the spirit” is as alien to Jamie as the environment the two men are occupying as they speak.