doing some reading about this….”
Dr. Hazel sighs. Not out loud, but his eyes sort of click out of focus, like
they're
sighing.
“There are plenty of cases,” Dad goes on, “where the medical guys say there's no chance, but the patient somehow wakes up after a prolonged period of time and turns out to be okay. There was this one case I found on the Internet, about a man in Jacksonville, Florida, and he—”
“Dad,” I say.
“His family never gave up,” says Dad. “They talked to him and they prayed and they—”
Dr. Hazel pulls a pen out of the chest pocket of his white coat. He makes a note on his clipboard and then just taps the pen a few times till Dad pauses.
“None of us can discount what seem like miracles,” the doctor says. “But they are very,
very
rare. The more time that goes by without reaction, the more … the likelihood of recovery diminishes.”
“If she gets transferred to a bigger hospital?” says Dad. “Where they have more equipment?”
“Claire is getting the best possible care right where she is, Mr. Johnson. I promise you that. After surgery there's often a waiting period before we can assess how the body adjusts. We let the sedative subside and keep watching for… some sort of response to stimulation. At this point, we're about, oh, roughly thirty-six hours after surgery?”
“You would know,” says Dad in a voice tight with, I'd say tight with
agony.
“Yes,” says Dr. Hazel, glancing at his gold watch. “We'll take a look at Claire again tomorrow morning, and likely schedule an EEG first thing Wednesday. Until then, get rest if you can.”
I step backward out of his way, opening the door, knowing he's done. He nods to me, flashing some brown-eyed pity, and goes away. Dad's head is bowed, and he just stands there.
“Come on, Dad.” I slide my hand into his and give him a tug.
“I need a minute.”
“Okay,” I say. “I'll go find Mom. I'll be right back.”
Did You Ever See Dad Cry?
Okay, Claire, I'm going to tell you the saddest thing.
Dad and I talked to Dr. Hazel and then I went to find Mom. She wasn't in your room and I checked the lobby. Aunt Jeanie's train was late, maybe. I went back up to the fifth floor and I could see Dad in the lounge reserved for freaked-out families. It's separate from the regular place; the sofas are fabric instead of vinyl, and there are table lamps with cheesy maroon shades instead of fluorescent lighting.
When I look down the hall and through the glass door,it's like seeing Dad through a spyglass, this hunched-over man, waiting for the next blow to fall.
I slide down next to him on the nasty brown tweed and bump shoulders, letting him know I'm there.
He doesn't say anything. But then he shudders and spits out this deep, gargling sob. His face squints up and his eyes are squeezed shut, so only the tiniest trickle leaks out. It's as if his tears have never been called on and there's nothing in there. It looks painful, and he's making this bleating noise.
I twist around and try to hug him. He grabs on and throws his whole shaking weight against me, like I'm the only hope. The
only
hope. My shirt rides up in back and the scratchy upholstery is scraping my skin. Tears swamp my eyes. Dad's clinging to me, and it's the most wretched thing that has ever happened.
Since the … accident… I haven't really …
looked
at him. I haven't ignored him, exactly, but he's been busy looking up cures online and hovering over Mom and figuring out who to blame and if there's anybody to sue and I just haven't paid attention.
But now he's not letting go; he's heaving and holding me tighter and tighter so I can't breathe. I've stopped crying, but how am I supposed to pull away? If a boy did this to me I'd scream, Get the hell off me, you freaking skeeze, but it's my dad and it's getting scary.
He's lost his mind. Bawling, out of control.
What if he actually
has
lost his mind? What if this is it? I'm witnessing the total collapse of a
Dr. Hazel sighs. Not out loud, but his eyes sort of click out of focus, like
they're
sighing.
“There are plenty of cases,” Dad goes on, “where the medical guys say there's no chance, but the patient somehow wakes up after a prolonged period of time and turns out to be okay. There was this one case I found on the Internet, about a man in Jacksonville, Florida, and he—”
“Dad,” I say.
“His family never gave up,” says Dad. “They talked to him and they prayed and they—”
Dr. Hazel pulls a pen out of the chest pocket of his white coat. He makes a note on his clipboard and then just taps the pen a few times till Dad pauses.
“None of us can discount what seem like miracles,” the doctor says. “But they are very,
very
rare. The more time that goes by without reaction, the more … the likelihood of recovery diminishes.”
“If she gets transferred to a bigger hospital?” says Dad. “Where they have more equipment?”
“Claire is getting the best possible care right where she is, Mr. Johnson. I promise you that. After surgery there's often a waiting period before we can assess how the body adjusts. We let the sedative subside and keep watching for… some sort of response to stimulation. At this point, we're about, oh, roughly thirty-six hours after surgery?”
“You would know,” says Dad in a voice tight with, I'd say tight with
agony.
“Yes,” says Dr. Hazel, glancing at his gold watch. “We'll take a look at Claire again tomorrow morning, and likely schedule an EEG first thing Wednesday. Until then, get rest if you can.”
I step backward out of his way, opening the door, knowing he's done. He nods to me, flashing some brown-eyed pity, and goes away. Dad's head is bowed, and he just stands there.
“Come on, Dad.” I slide my hand into his and give him a tug.
“I need a minute.”
“Okay,” I say. “I'll go find Mom. I'll be right back.”
Did You Ever See Dad Cry?
Okay, Claire, I'm going to tell you the saddest thing.
Dad and I talked to Dr. Hazel and then I went to find Mom. She wasn't in your room and I checked the lobby. Aunt Jeanie's train was late, maybe. I went back up to the fifth floor and I could see Dad in the lounge reserved for freaked-out families. It's separate from the regular place; the sofas are fabric instead of vinyl, and there are table lamps with cheesy maroon shades instead of fluorescent lighting.
When I look down the hall and through the glass door,it's like seeing Dad through a spyglass, this hunched-over man, waiting for the next blow to fall.
I slide down next to him on the nasty brown tweed and bump shoulders, letting him know I'm there.
He doesn't say anything. But then he shudders and spits out this deep, gargling sob. His face squints up and his eyes are squeezed shut, so only the tiniest trickle leaks out. It's as if his tears have never been called on and there's nothing in there. It looks painful, and he's making this bleating noise.
I twist around and try to hug him. He grabs on and throws his whole shaking weight against me, like I'm the only hope. The
only
hope. My shirt rides up in back and the scratchy upholstery is scraping my skin. Tears swamp my eyes. Dad's clinging to me, and it's the most wretched thing that has ever happened.
Since the … accident… I haven't really …
looked
at him. I haven't ignored him, exactly, but he's been busy looking up cures online and hovering over Mom and figuring out who to blame and if there's anybody to sue and I just haven't paid attention.
But now he's not letting go; he's heaving and holding me tighter and tighter so I can't breathe. I've stopped crying, but how am I supposed to pull away? If a boy did this to me I'd scream, Get the hell off me, you freaking skeeze, but it's my dad and it's getting scary.
He's lost his mind. Bawling, out of control.
What if he actually
has
lost his mind? What if this is it? I'm witnessing the total collapse of a
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