Read Online The End of the World as We Know It by Robert Goolrick - Free Book Online
Authors: Robert Goolrick
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silence.
People who are in comas donât look like theyâre sleeping peacefully. They look inert. They look like a breathing dead person. Everything has gone slack. Whatever self they have has left their bodies. We thought it a hopeful sign that he had said anything, that he had moved his hand.
Every day the motorcycle guy had another operation, andthere was one less baggy hanging off the side of his bed. Sometimes he was even conscious. They wouldnât even put him on painkillers. He was so close to death they thought sedation would put him over the edge. I donât know how he stood it. The pain must have been terrible, what with the gas tank up the rectum and all.
My parents left. There was only so much trauma they could stand, and theyâd run out of their bourbon and my brother had moved his hand and talked about Stevie Wonder and so they left. My sister-in-law had taken to coming home for dinner, although she still slept at the hospital. I did her laundry. I cleaned her toilets. I had people over for dinner I thought might comfort her. I had the woman who had said she gauged how much meat to get by the price and not by the number of guests. My sister-in-law was enormously pregnant.
We took turns going to the ICU. We could only go for fifteen minutes twice a day, even though Elvis seemed to be surrounded by fans and fellow bikers all the time. My sister-in-law would go in the mornings, sometimes we would both go, sometimes I would go and she would rest after a dinner I had cooked, surrounded by friends, and she would wait for news.
People in comas are not attractive. They have foul breath and yellow cheese between their teeth and they stink. The motorcycle guy was not in a coma, he was just in unimaginable pain, so his lights were sort of always out, but he was gorgeous every time you looked at him. I think his family combed his Elvis hair, black and shiny and pompadoured. My brother, with a cross around his neck, a cheap cross, not even real silver, did not look like somebody your heart cried out to see.
One night I went alone to see him, while my sister-in-law sat with her best friends at the dinner table. I walked in and started talking to him. I had taken to having these conversations with him, even though there was no indication that he would respond. I told him things that I thought would irritate him, to try to get a rise out of him. I told him our sisterâs house had burned down. I told him I had wrecked his car. I told him his wife had told me she would hate me forever.
This night, I talked about his stereo. My brother had a new stereo of which he was inordinately proud. We had talked about it on the phone, before his aneurysm, and I knew it meant a lot to him. He didnât want anybody to touch it. I knew he valued his record collection like gold, and I had noticed that, before his head blew up at the party, he had bought the new Paul McCartney album, the one with the cherries on the cover. So I told him I had played the McCartney album on his new stereo, and I had scratched the vinyl on both sides of the album. I was holding his thin right hand, and I told him Iâd wrecked his new record.
He opened his eyes, and looked at me. âI know this is hard,â he said. âI know you take care of everybody, but I want you to take care of yourself. I know itâs been hard on you.â
Then he closed his eyes, and he sang in a thin, whispery voice, so softly I could barely hear him, âMaybe Iâm amazed at the way youâre with me all the time. And maybe Iâm amazed at the way I love you.â
Then he lapsed back into a coma. But I knew he was going to live.
For the next three weeks, I flew down to Atlanta every weekend. I would leave on Thursday night after work, and come backon Sunday or Monday. They were very understanding at work, although, come to think of it, they fired me six months later, so maybe their patience was more superficial than it seemed.
I
People who are in comas donât look like theyâre sleeping peacefully. They look inert. They look like a breathing dead person. Everything has gone slack. Whatever self they have has left their bodies. We thought it a hopeful sign that he had said anything, that he had moved his hand.
Every day the motorcycle guy had another operation, andthere was one less baggy hanging off the side of his bed. Sometimes he was even conscious. They wouldnât even put him on painkillers. He was so close to death they thought sedation would put him over the edge. I donât know how he stood it. The pain must have been terrible, what with the gas tank up the rectum and all.
My parents left. There was only so much trauma they could stand, and theyâd run out of their bourbon and my brother had moved his hand and talked about Stevie Wonder and so they left. My sister-in-law had taken to coming home for dinner, although she still slept at the hospital. I did her laundry. I cleaned her toilets. I had people over for dinner I thought might comfort her. I had the woman who had said she gauged how much meat to get by the price and not by the number of guests. My sister-in-law was enormously pregnant.
We took turns going to the ICU. We could only go for fifteen minutes twice a day, even though Elvis seemed to be surrounded by fans and fellow bikers all the time. My sister-in-law would go in the mornings, sometimes we would both go, sometimes I would go and she would rest after a dinner I had cooked, surrounded by friends, and she would wait for news.
People in comas are not attractive. They have foul breath and yellow cheese between their teeth and they stink. The motorcycle guy was not in a coma, he was just in unimaginable pain, so his lights were sort of always out, but he was gorgeous every time you looked at him. I think his family combed his Elvis hair, black and shiny and pompadoured. My brother, with a cross around his neck, a cheap cross, not even real silver, did not look like somebody your heart cried out to see.
One night I went alone to see him, while my sister-in-law sat with her best friends at the dinner table. I walked in and started talking to him. I had taken to having these conversations with him, even though there was no indication that he would respond. I told him things that I thought would irritate him, to try to get a rise out of him. I told him our sisterâs house had burned down. I told him I had wrecked his car. I told him his wife had told me she would hate me forever.
This night, I talked about his stereo. My brother had a new stereo of which he was inordinately proud. We had talked about it on the phone, before his aneurysm, and I knew it meant a lot to him. He didnât want anybody to touch it. I knew he valued his record collection like gold, and I had noticed that, before his head blew up at the party, he had bought the new Paul McCartney album, the one with the cherries on the cover. So I told him I had played the McCartney album on his new stereo, and I had scratched the vinyl on both sides of the album. I was holding his thin right hand, and I told him Iâd wrecked his new record.
He opened his eyes, and looked at me. âI know this is hard,â he said. âI know you take care of everybody, but I want you to take care of yourself. I know itâs been hard on you.â
Then he closed his eyes, and he sang in a thin, whispery voice, so softly I could barely hear him, âMaybe Iâm amazed at the way youâre with me all the time. And maybe Iâm amazed at the way I love you.â
Then he lapsed back into a coma. But I knew he was going to live.
For the next three weeks, I flew down to Atlanta every weekend. I would leave on Thursday night after work, and come backon Sunday or Monday. They were very understanding at work, although, come to think of it, they fired me six months later, so maybe their patience was more superficial than it seemed.
I
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