Four Months Later
“MEDS GAMA.”
Nurse Marcy Falco looked up from her chart to Constance Stone, who was tucking in the sheet at the bottom of the bed. “You say something?”
“N-no,” Nurse Stone gasped, here eyes bulging like hen’s eggs. “He did.”
“Omigod!”
Jack Koryan was staring at Marcy—eyes locked in purposeful focus, not floating around in their sockets or staring off in different directions. And his mouth was moving.
He repeated those syllables.
Over the six months, Jack Koryan had muttered a lot of nonsense, but this was the first time Marcy saw signs of a breakthrough. “Hi, Jack. My name is Marcy.” Then over her shoulder to Constance: “Get the others. They’ve gotta see this.”
But Constance was frozen in place, her eyes transfixed on a man who for the better half of a year had been a body connected to drips and Texas Catheters.
“Constance! Snap out of it. He’s trying to talk. Get the doctor.”
“Uh.” Constance said, but she was still unable to move.
“Meds Gama.”
“Jack! Jack. What did you say?”
“He’s waking up,” Constance gasped, as if just realizing it.
“Jack, say it again,” Marcy insisted.
And the same syllables scraped out.
“Something about his meds. ‘Meds karma’?” Constance asked.
“Would you please get me some help? Now.” And Constance bolted out the door. Marcy took Jack’s hand. “Jack? Jack, can you hear me?”
He looked at her, his eyes widening in fear.
“Good. Jack, my name is Marcy. I’m your nurse. I’m going to stay with you,” she continued. In a strange environment with no frame of reverence, he could panic, maybe even relapse into the coma or, worse, go into cardiac arrest. “I’m not going to leave you. I know this is confusing to you, but you’re going to be okay. But I want you to talk to me, Jack. Do you understand? I want you to talk to me.”
His eyes closed again. Nothing.
Damn! She squeezed his hand: “Jack, open your eyes again. Tell me what you said. Jack, answer me.”
Jack rolled his head and took a deep breath. But he did not open his eyes.
“Jack, squeeze my hand.” She raised her voice. “Jack, squeeze my hand.” And she felt his hand squeeze ever so slightly. “Good, Jack. Now open your eyes. I know you’re in there.”
Jack’s eyes slitted open.
“Hi. Can you see me?” she asked, hoping even after six months that he would be another of her “witchcraft” wake-up cases. Instantly she shifted into her clinical mode, carefully scrutinizing him for neurological responses. “Look at me, Jack.”
At that moment, several people burst into the room—two other nurses, another assistant, the nursing supervisor, and Dr. Clive Preston, director of the facility.
“His feet are moving,” one nurse said, and she pulled up the bedding to reveal the tennis shoes.
Greendale was aggressive with its physical therapy of coma patients—regularly exercising their limbs and digits, fixing their hands and feet in splints to prevent drop foot and hands freezing into claws. The shoes were intended to keep his toes pointing upward. Despite all that, two weeks in bed was like losing a year of muscular life. And six months of disuse had reduced Jack to scarecrow proportions.
Marcy removed his shoes. “Jack, can you wiggle your toes for me?”
Nothing. His eyes closed again.
“Then just move your feet a little.”
Still nothing.
“Jack. Jack! Listen: I want you to open your eyes for me. Please. Open your eyes.”
Jack’s eyelids fluttered slightly then opened partway. He rolled his head toward Marcy.
“Good. Can you hear me?” She lowered her face to his. His eyes were at half-mast, peering at her. But his tongue moved behind his teeth.
“Mmm.”
“What’s that?” She had to get him to track her with his eyes, to confirm that this wasn’t a false alarm.
Jack’s eyes widened and locked on to Marcy’s. And in a barely audible voice scraping through a larynx unused for months, Jack said, “You have big teeth.”
“I sure do.” Marcy’s white front teeth protruded slightly.
The paper skin around Jack’s eyes crinkled ever so slightly, and the muscles of his mouth expanded into a faint smile. Remarkably he was processing memory, even judging with humor. This was incredible. Also the fact that he had articulated his words so well. “Great. Now, Jack, please look at me.”
Jack’s eyes opened with gluey effort, his pupils large, parallel, and fixed on her face.
“Good. My name is Marcy. I want you to tell me your name. Understand?”
He looked down at his arm with the IV attached to the drip bags and catheter running to a bag hanging on the bed’s side and the wires connecting him to the monitors. In a breathy rasp, he said, “Where am I?”
“You’re at Greendale Rehabilitation Home in Cabot, Massachusetts.”
Jack rolled his head toward her, blinking against the lights at the circle of faces looking down at him. “Blurry.”
Marcy’s heart leapt up. Remarkably he was processing thought. “Yes, blurry. That’s from the ointment we put in your eyes. But can you see me okay?”
“Mmmm.”
“Can you tell me your name?”
“Jack Koryan.”
“Great. That’s great.” Because Jack was her patient, the others let Marcy maintain a running monologue to keep Jack awake and to assess any neurological dysfunction. Nearly glowing with pride, she had him wiggle his toes, his fingers, blink one eye, then the next, tell her his full name, to repeat words after her. But what she dreaded telling him was that he had missed the last half year of his life.
“Hi, Jack, my name is Clive Preston. I’m the director here at Greendale.”
Marcy nodded for Dr. Preston to continue. “You had a swimming accident and were unconscious for a while. You’re getting better, but you have to stay awake and keep talking to us. Okay?”
“How long?”
Marcy felt her insides clutch. The shock could be traumatic, maybe even bring on a relapse.
“How long?” Preston asked.
Before he could answer, Marcy cut in. “Jack, the important thing is for you to talk to us.” She took his hand. It wasn’t supposed to happen this way. Patients never just snapped out of deep comas; they emerged gradually, over days—enough time to call in relatives and friends to be there when they woke up. Jack had emerged from a profound coma lasting over six months and was suddenly demanding answers.
His eyes scanned the faces. “How long?”
Marcy wished Beth or Vince were there. The shock could send him into a panic. “Jack, I want to run a few tests on you. I want you to count to ten, okay?”
He closed his eyes for a long moment. But instead of mouthing numbers, he said, “Honesty is the best therapy.”
The words sent a cold ripple through Marcy. Her slogan. What she had said to Beth—but Jesus! That was months ago! “Well, now, you’ve been listening.”
“What’s … date?”
Dr. Preston pushed forward. “Jack, I know how confusing this all is, but we’d like you to just answer a few simple questions, okay?”
Jack closed his eyes again and rocked his head slowly from side to side.
“Jack, don’t go back to sleep,” Marcy said. “Please open your eyes.”
“Dreaming,” he whispered.
“What’s that?”
“Dream.”
“No, you’re not dreaming, Jack.”
“Jack, tell me your name again.”
“Jack Koryan.” Then his eyes widened as something passed through him. “What’s date?”