It made me want to scream. It made me want to pull her into an embrace that would last forever, that neither one of us would let go. And then she leaned forward, looking closely at my face, and whispered almost silently in my ear, “I’m waiting for you, soldier.”
I couldn’t help it. I almost choked on a sob. At that moment I would have done anything, anything in the world, to be able to crawl back inside my body and wake up.
But I couldn’t. She turned and walked out of the room. Numb, I followed her. Doctor Peterson walked back to the intensive care unit with her, neither of them speaking. They walked quickly, businesslike, but I could tell from the tense, straight line of Carrie’s back that she was doing everything in her power to keep from throwing or breaking something. At the ICU, Doctor Peterson said, “I’m going to recommend that all of you go get some sleep. Visiting hours have been over for a long time. Get some rest. You can come back after 7 a.m.”
Carrie nodded, her eyes vacant. Peterson swiped his access card, and the door slid open. Carrie stepped inside just as a man briskly walked across the hall and followed her in. Doctor Peterson turned away, and I followed the man in, my eyes narrowing.
“Doctor Thompson-Sherman?” the man said, and I felt a sudden flash of unchecked rage. Carrie felt it too: I could see it, her shoulders suddenly turning stiff, feet coming to a stop. She spun around, disbelief on her face.
Behind her, Dylan and Alex were sitting against one wall, next to Jessica. My parents had moved marginally closer to them, no longer all the way across the room but not next to them either. Sarah was across the room from the rest of them, loitering near the nurses’ station. Nobody noticed her there.
The man I knew. He was Ronald Lafferty. A reporter from the New York Daily News.
The first time I met Lafferty was a few days after the Army decided they were going to charge me after all. I’d taken the metro from Walter Reed to Bethesda and walked the two blocks back to the condo. He was standing at the door, and as I reached to open it, he’d aggressively approached me, calling out questions. I’d answered repeatedly, “No comment,” and the next day my picture was spread, tabloid style, across the Daily News. The headline read “War Criminal Living in Lap of Luxury?”
That was only the first of many articles smearing both Carrie and me. Lafferty had made a career of trying to destroy our lives.
“Leave me the hell alone,” Carrie said, her face showing rage. Dylan stood up, concern on his face.
“Carrie,” Lafferty said, “Can you comment on the accident? Did you know the other driver?”
“I’m not commenting on anything. Get out of here now.”
Lafferty wasn’t intimidated. “Come on, Carrie. We’re going to run the story anyway. Tell us your side. Were you surprised to find out the other driver was also in the Army?”
“What?” Carrie said, her face betraying shock. “Leave me alone! You have no right to be in here!”
Dylan’s face was red, and he approached the reporter rapidly. From the other side, Sarah was approaching, anger on her face.
Dylan said, “You heard the lady. Get out of here now.”
A nurse saw the commotion and a look of concern crossed her face. She said, “Excuse me, sir. Are you here to visit an immediate family member?”
“Carrie, an Army source is saying the other driver is connected to the investigation somehow. Tell me what you know, and you can finally get your side of the story out.”
Horror mixed with shock flashed across her face. She covered her ears and yelled, “Get out!”
At Carrie’s shout, Dylan exploded into violence, running forward and grabbing Lafferty by the collar. He slammed him into the wall with a loud thud, and said, “Get the hell out of here, now!”
But then it happened. Sarah screamed, a blood-curdling scream, “Leave my sister alone!” and ran forward, right through Dylan. She put her hands on either side of Lafferty’s head, inside of his head, and let loose a scream bearing all of the pent-up rage and anger and confusion of a teenage girl facing horror and death. Everybody in the room suddenly winced, and I had to cover my ears.
Dylan backed off the reporter and muttered, his voice rough, “Get out of here.”
But Sarah wasn’t done. Not even close. Her whole form shivered, flickered even, and for just a second I could see Lafferty right through her. But I could see the rage in her form, almost like black tendrils of mist were flowing from her hands right into him, and then the lights actually dimmed a little as she poured her anger right into the reporter.
I don’t know what she was doing. But I knew I felt a black sense of terror, pain in my temple, and suddenly I wanted to vomit. I covered my ears to block out the screaming, but it was inside my head as I bent over slightly, pain washing down my entire body.
Whatever she was doing was affecting everyone. Rafferty had turned white, and Dylan was backing away, eyes darting everywhere as if he were back on the battlefield. Daniel had curled up into a ball in his seat, covering his ears and squeezing his eyes shut in terror. And Jessica began to hyperventilate, shaking in her seat, and her eyes rolled up in her head as she muttered, “Stop, leave her alone….”
Lafferty gasped, his eyes wide, and stumbled away, from Dylan, from Sarah. He didn’t see her. He didn’t know what was happening. He couldn’t have known what was happening. He pointed at Dylan and said, “You’ll go down for this, you fuck,” and ran for the door. That’s when I realized his pants were strained wet with urine and fear.
The door slid open, and Lafferty ran out of the room.
Everything was silent for just a moment, but then several alarms went off at the nurses’ station. One of the nurses quickly silenced the alarm ... and then ran for Sarah’s room. A second later, she called out, “Get Doctor Wilson! And a crash cart! She’s coding!”
Not over yet (Carrie)
I gasped for air as that bastard Lafferty ran out the door. Dylan looked confused, anger written across his face, and Alexandra stared at Dylan as if she didn’t know who he was. The sudden burst of violence had shocked everyone, most of all Dylan himself. He was pale, a look of shock on his face, as he stared after the man who had been so scared he’d soiled himself.
There was a bare moment of silence, and then I heard beeping, loud, from the nurses’ station.
Seconds later one of the nurses called out from Sarah’s room, “Get Doctor Wilson! And a crash cart! She’s coding!”
Numb terror flooded through me. Had I somehow resigned myself to the idea I might lose Ray? I don’t think so, but all the same, this plunged me into a new well of fear. My heart thumped in my chest as I watched another nurse, and then a doctor, run into Sarah’s room. The alarms from the monitors were piercing my head, my heart.
I stood there, gasping, not knowing what to do, and then I felt arms around me. Alexandra on one side, and Jessica on the other.
The three of us stood there, like shipwreck survivors, and watched our sister, praying she wasn’t dying. Inside the room, the doctor held a pair of plastic paddles as they charged up with a whining sound, and a nurse pulled Sarah’s gown down and out of the way while another smeared gel on her chest.
The doctor yelled, “Clear!” and pressed the paddles to her chest. A loud thump, and her body spasmed. Jessica staggered next to me, and I turned and lifted her.
“Dylan, help!” I cried. He ran to me and lifted Jessica in his arms. She had turned pasty white, and a low, keening whine rose from her throat. Her eyes were wide open, bugged out, pupils dilated. Dylan said, “Come on, you don’t need to see this.”
“No!” she cried. She started to fight him, hysterical tears falling down her face as she struggled to pull away. He gripped her harder, his upper arms bulging with effort as he held her. He spoke to her in a hoarse whisper, “It’s going to be okay, Jessica. It’s going to be okay.”
I sobbed as the monitor above Sarah continued to emit a shriek. The doctor shouted, “Clear!” again. The nurses stepped back, and he applied
the paddles again, and Sarah’s body flopped again.
The doctor and nurses stood back, watching the monitor, and nothing happened. Jessica started to moan again, and Dylan murmured, “It’s not over yet. Stay calm. Stay calm.” He didn’t let go of her. Two more doctors had arrived in the room by this time.
“Bag her,” the doctor said, his voice calm. “Compressions.”
I watched as a nurse fitted a breathing device over Sarah’s face, and one of the other doctors began CPR as a nurse pulled a curtain closed, blocking our view of the room.
“Clear!” the first doctor shouted. A thump, and the alarms continued.
“Compressions!” the doctor called.
Sarah was gone (Ray)
“What the fuck did you do?” I shouted.
Sarah shook her head. “I ... I don’t know…” she said. Her eyes were wide and shocked. And the scary thing was, she was still ... just a little bit ... transparent. She stood there, winded, her chest rising and falling with each staggering breath. I tried not to stare, but it was frightening. Tendrils of what looked like black smoke still curled out of her mouth.
“Sarah…” I said.
“What?”
“You’re ... fading.”
She swallowed. “What are you talking about?”
I grabbed her hand. She still felt substantial. But I could just barely make mine out underneath it. Through it.
“What the hell?” she cried, staring in shock. Neither of us paid the slightest bit of attention to what was happening just down the hall, where a doctor shouted, “Clear!”
But then we heard the thump in the other room, and she staggered and cried out in agony.
Jesus Christ! I thought as I reached out and grabbed her.
Her eyes were wide, and she cried out, “Oh, fuck that hurts!”
Daniel cried out, “Are you okay? I’m scared!”
And then it hit me. All at once.
We could touch people. With strong emotion.
She’d touched that EMT in the elevator. Even though we weren’t even really there, he’d reacted, unconsciously.
I’d touched Carrie, while feeling that awful longing, and sent her over the edge into longing and despair.
She’d freaking poured emotion into Lafferty. Rage, fear, overwhelming protectiveness of Carrie. Enough that he’d pissed himself and run in terror. But ... we were still connected to our bodies. We had to be. Because the minute she’d done that, the minute she’d poured all that energy into someone, it had stopped her heart in whatever the real world was.
We were still connected, however tenuously, to the real world. And her real body was dying because of what she’d done here.
They shocked her again, and her body, her non-corporeal body that was here with me, seized, and I felt it, a white flash of pain ripping through me. I let out a curse, and then, without thought, I lifted her in my arms and ran for the room where her solid body lay.
“What the hell are you doing, Ray?” she screamed.
“Shut up and come on,” I replied, carrying her into the room. Even as doctor leaned over her body to do chest compressions, I threw her on the table.
“Ray, stop it!”
“No!” I shouted in my best Army Sergeant voice, “You’re dying here, and sucking energy out of your own body! Get in there!”
She stared at me, horror on her face. And then the other doctor shouted, “Clear!” and she jerked in fear. Before she could get off the table, I leaned forward and pushed her down, into her own body.
“You have to go back!” I shouted. “You’re going to die!”
“No!” she cried out. “I’m afraid!”
“I don’t give a shit!” And now I was crying too. “Carrie can’t lose both of us, goddamn it!”
Then the doctor leaned forward and pressed the paddles against her chest and we both screamed in pain. Her body ... her spirit body... flopped in a seizure, and she screamed, “Ray, damn it, let me up!”
I grabbed both sides of her face and whispered urgently, “You have to go back.”
Her eyes were huge, and tears were streaking down her face. Her skin had gone pale, her eyes red-rimmed. She was still just slightly transparent, and that scared the crap out of me. We both ignored the doctor who began CPR compressions.
“I’m afraid,” she said. “What if I die? What if this is it? What about you?”
I swallowed and said, “You’ll be fine, Sarah. I promise. I think this is the only way. You need to go on without me, and ... I’ll figure something out.”
She shook her head, struggling against me again, and said, “I can’t!”
“Do it!” I said, my voice breaking. “I need you to go take care of Carrie. Do it!”
Her entire body was shuddering, and she closed her eyes and said, “Okay. How?”
“I don’t know,” I said. “Just ... imagine. Pretend you’re back in there. Believe it.”
She closed her eyes, her face slack. I could still see the terror in her expression, but she was fighting it. I was afraid too. Afraid that she wouldn’t go back, and that being separated from her body for so long would break whatever tenuous hold she still had on the real world, that she would drift off, that her body would die and she’d be condemned to wander out here, not dead but not alive, not anything. I had to do whatever it took to help her get home.
Whatever it took.
I was still holding the sides of her face, and I said, “Promise me you’ll take care of her.”
“What?” she screeched.
“Promise me, damn it,” I said, my voice breaking again. “Promise me you’ll watch out for Carrie!”
Her voice didn’t hold terror any more. It held grief, as tears began to pour out of her eyes, welling over. My own tears fell down on her face, mixing with hers, and she said, in a shaky, quiet voice, “I promise.”
And then I closed my eyes, and willed her back into her body. I pictured her at the Morbid Obesity concert, a huge grin on her face as she banged into the punk rockers in the mosh pit, every inch of her alive and vital and beautiful. I pictured her as Carrie had described her, a tiny little girl with a huge personality that could fill up a room all on its own. I pictured her holding Carrie’s hand.
And that’s when something crazy happened, as if all of this wasn’t crazy enough. I stopped deliberately picturing things, but my mind was still filled with images. Images from her memory. I saw her, looking in the mirror, five years old, as she and Jessica took a ballet class together, two tiny twins, one light, one dark. I saw her in a park, staring as blood welled up out of her palm, and her much older sister Carrie, reassuring her as she pulled the glass out.
I saw her at a crowded table in a restaurant, all of her sisters around her, as she made faces at a blonde, spiked-haired, much younger Crank Wilson.
Sarah tumbled to the ground when a young, red-faced Randy Brewer stuck his foot out and tripped her, and then he chuckled and laughed as she ran away, mud on her dress.
The visions kept coming, more vivid, more colorful as she grew older. Now she was in middle school, walking down the hall hand-in-hand with Jessica when a boy pushed between them and said, “Freaks.” Six months later, staring in the mirror at her the first time she’d worn all black. The next morning she punched a boy who had been bullying Jessica.
I saw her, improbably, in a bowling alley. I could feel the weight of a pair of combat boots, a tight t-shirt, the hand of a boy on her side, the boy who was the first—and last—to ever kiss her.
I saw her standing across the room from Jessica, throwing books and screaming.
I saw her sister Andrea, crying. Packing. Refusing to say what was wrong, why she was leaving.
I saw her in the backseat of Carrie’s Mercedes, behind me; arms crossed over her chest, she stared out the window and then saw the approaching Jeep and panicked.
I swallowed, feeling a lump form in my throat when I realized that if she didn’t make it, if I wasn’t able to get her back in her body
right now, then she might not ever get that second kiss. She might not get a chance to go to another concert. She might not get a chance to see Andrea again and find out what went wrong. Just like the boy in Dega Payan, the boy whose life was cut short too soon, the boy who I couldn’t save, no matter how many times I went back there in my dreams, no matter how many times I wished it away, no matter how many times I begged God for forgiveness that I hadn’t saved his life.
I couldn’t go back and save that boy’s life. But I could do what I could here. Maybe this was a chance for me too, not just for Sarah. Maybe this was a chance to do something right.
Her eyes flew open, and she whispered, “I’m sinking. Don’t let me go.”
I poured every inch of love that I had into her. Every instinct of compassion. Every moment that I wanted her to have. I closed my eyes and wished. And then my hands slipped, no longer touching her spirit, but instead, flailing against the insubstantial but all too real body below me. The air left me in a sudden rush as I exhaled, and I opened my eyes, suddenly feeling all alone.
Sarah was gone.
I stumbled back, feeling myself waver, as if I were in shock. I stared down at my hands and flinched, because I could see through them. I could see the floor through them. I held them up in front of me, and they were shaking, and right through my insubstantial fingers I could see Sarah, with the doctor pounding on her chest.
And then the nurse shouted, “We’ve got a pulse!”
I collapsed beside her bed. And then I saw Daniel, standing in the doorway. His eyes were wide with fear.
Little bits (Carrie)
“Doctor Thompson? I’m Richard Moore.”
I smiled and shook his hand. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Doctor Moore. Please ... call me Carrie.”
“Richard, then.”
I was standing in the main lobby of the National Institute of Allergy and Infectious Diseases, one of the many buildings on the sprawling NIH campus. Doctor Moore, who would be my fellowship supervisor, was one of the preeminent scientists in the Infectious Diseases Division. He was a tall man, almost my height, with gaunt, angular features and sunken cheeks.
The Last Hour Page 22
