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.
There was a metal folding chair to the left of his bed. I sat down. His right arm was in a cast. His legs were covered by a thin blue blanket. But his left arm lay exposed and, except for a few small bandages and the IV needle jabbed into his wrist, feeding some clear fluid into his bloodstream, the arm looked normal. Healthy. So, very gently, careful not to jar any of the delicately assembled machinery that surrounded his body, I rested my hand on top of his.
I wondered where his glasses were, in case he needed them. No—when he needed them. Then I remembered they were probably floating downstream somewhere, miles away. Maybe they’d made it to the ocean. I didn’t even know if the river hit the ocean. But everything does eventually, right?
He opened his eyes.
“Hi!” No, that was too loud, too fakely cheery. He’d see through it. “Hey,” I said, softer.
Nothing.
“Auden? Can you hear me?” I leaned over him, so that he could see me, even with his head pinned in place by the metal cage. “It’s me. Lia.”
I wondered if he could understand what I was saying.
Substantial amount of brain function, the doctor had said without ever clarifying what “substantial” meant. Something more than none; something less than all.
“You’re going to be okay,” I said, just like I’d said on the way to the hospital, just as uselessly. I remembered, then, how much I’d hated it when people had said it to me. How ridiculous, how unacceptable it had sounded coming from people who were whole and healthy. Nothing would be okay, I’d thought after the accident. And I’d hated them for lying. “The doctor says you’ll be fine.”
“You must be talking to a different doctor,” he said. Wheezed, more like. His words were slow and raspy, like he hadn’t used his throat in a long time. And like they hurt coming out.
But still, I smiled, and my smile was real. He was back.
“I was so—” I stopped myself. He didn’t need to hear how I’d been torturing myself in the waiting room, worrying. This wasn’t about me, I reminded myself. It was about him. “You look like crap,” I said, trying to laugh. “Does it hurt?”
“No.”
It figured. They had pretty good drugs these days, and he was no doubt getting the best.
“So, I guess we’ve got something in common now,” I said. “We’ve both been technically dead, and come back to life.” Was it inappropriate to joke? Would it make him feel better, or would it make him think I didn’t care? “Better be careful, or the Faithers will start worshipping us or something.”
“Uh-huh.”
Okay. Too soon to joke.
“I saw your father in the waiting room. He was really worried about you. I guess he cares more than you… Well. Anyway. He was worried.”
“Yeah.”
It probably hurt him to talk.
“Not that he has to be worried, because you’re going to be fine. Doctors can do anything these days, right? Just look at me.”
Wrong thing to say.
Everything I said was the wrong thing to say.
I rubbed my palm lightly across his, wishing that he would grasp my hand, squeeze my fingers, do something to indicate that he wanted me there. But he didn’t. I held on anyway. His skin was warm, proof that he was still alive.
“You were amazing, you know that?” I said. “When you jumped in to rescue me? They said the water was so cold you shouldn’t even have been able to—” I stopped. Neither of us needed the reminder. “It was really heroic. To save me.”
“It was stupid.”
“No, Auden….”
He didn’t speak again, just stared at the ceiling.
“You’re tired,” I said. “I should probably go, let you sleep—”