The Evolutionist

by Rena Mason

  “Is that why this is here?” I point my head toward the side table. There’s a large tube labeled K-Y Jelly on top of it.

  “Yeah, probably. I’m sure someone just forgot to put it away.”

  That’s a relief. Seeing it there made me a little nervous when I noticed it a minute ago. Jelly and a breathing tube shoved down my throat, evokes the memory of the chambers and how I had taken in the slimy, acidic, sugary substance. Could the timing be? I wonder if there’s a correlation.

  “So, tell me exactly what I have to do to get out of here as soon as possible.”

  “That’s up to you.”

  “I’ll do any and every thing, just tell me.”

  “Eat, don’t bleed, or stop breathing, and make sure your heart keeps beating.” He winks. “You’ve got to get moving again, but don’t rush. You’ve just been through an ordeal. We all have, and I don’t want you to hasten the healing process. It could trigger another attack.”

  “But you said my lab results are normal, so there’s really nothing to worry about.”

  “Yeah, but we haven’t really trusted the lab work so much in your situation. Something is definitely going on. We just haven’t found it yet. You came out of your coma in the middle of an MRI and pulled out your breathing tube and IV. As soon as you’re up to it, they want to try it again. The images from the first one didn’t turn out so well.”

  “Fine. I’ll do whatever it takes to go home.”

  “Don’t be in such a hurry. You’re not missing anything.”

  “What do you mean? Of course I am. I’ve been out for two weeks. There’s a lot to do.”

  “Well, Patrick’s been here. Your parents arrive tomorrow. I called them and told them you were awake, by the way. And other things…that can wait.”

  “What other things?”

  “The usual bullshit stuff, that’s all.”

  “I want to know what you mean. Besides all this, is something else wrong? Tell me Jon, please.”

  He looks away. “You’ll find out soon enough. For now, you need to focus on getting better and showing them you’re fine if you want to get out of here.”

  “Then that’s exactly what I’ll do.”

  He slides off the bed then leans down and kisses my forehead. “I’ve missed you like crazy.”

  “I’ve missed you, too.”

  He straightens up, and I see tears welled up in his eyes. He sniffs a little. Then the door swings open and Patrick barges in with a woman wearing light green scrubs, carrying a big tray of covered dishes. It smells like hospital food—a blend of bland and plastic.

  “Hello, Mrs. Troy. This is for you.” Her name tag reads, Maria, Nurse’s Aide.

  Jon rolls the side table over and lowers it gently onto my lap. Maria places the tray on top then proceeds to remove the covers. Hmm…hot tea in a plastic mug, steaming broth in a plastic bowl, and red gelatin. It seems silly now when I look at it, that not long ago, that’s how I saw myself—red and jiggling.

  “Thank you,” I tell her.

  “Well, I’m going to step out and check on things while you eat,” Jon says. “I’ll be back.”

  “Okay,” I say. “Bye.”

  “Doesn’t this look good, Pat?” I say.

  “No,” he says. Then he picks up his phone, puts his earbuds in, and plops down into the chair at the foot of the bed.

  “If you don’t need anything else, I’m going to go,” Maria says. “When you’re finished you can buzz me, and I’ll come back to get the tray.”

  I nod at her and smile. After she leaves, I examine my tray of liquids, picking up the mug of tea first. It smells like burning plastic. “Pat,” I say, and wave my hand to get his attention.

  He pulls an earbud out. “What?”

  “Can you pour this down the sink in the bathroom? It’s disgusting.”

  “Dad said you have to eat something.”

  “It’s not food. I’ll drink the broth but not this. Just toss it for me okay, and rinse out the sink, so they don’t see we threw it away.”

  He gets up and does what I ask. The broth is lukewarm already, and before it gets any colder, I pick up the bowl and chug it all down. It soothes as it passes down the rough patch in my throat.

  “Geez, Mom, no spoon?”

  “Stuff like this, it’s better to gulp.”

  When I’m done I wipe my chin with a paper napkin from the side of the tray then stare at the gelatin. It almost doesn’t seem right to eat it, but it smells sweet, like strawberries. Pat comes back with the empty plastic cup from the bathroom and sets it down on the table.

  “Are you going to eat that?” he says.

  “Why, do you want it?”

  “No, but it looks gross.”

  I pick the spoon up from the tray, and he watches me slice down into the gelatin. I scoop up half and put it in my mouth before I change my mind.

  “Well?” he says, staring at me for a reaction.

  “Not bad.” I finish it in two bites. “I’m still hungry, though. Were you able to score anything from the vending machines?”

  “I guess it would be all right, since you ate that nasty lunch.” He reaches into his pocket and hands me a candy bar.

  “No soda?”

  “Just a sec.” He huffs, then reaches into the kangaroo pocket of his hoodie and pulls out a slick, sweaty aluminum can. He hands it to me. “I had to wait for them to go.”

  “I know. Thanks.”

  “Aren’t you glad I wear these baggy sweatshirts?”

  “Yeah, I guess they come in handy at times like these. You got anything else in there?”

  “No. That’s enough for now.”

  I turn the can around and take a look. “Ooh, strawberry. Perfect to wash down that Jell-O aftertaste.” I snap the tab open, slide a straw from the tray down into it, and take a few sips. “Ah…” It feels good going down my throat, too.” I tear the candy bar wrapper open and chomp off a bite. “Hmm…yum.” I take another drink of soda.

  Patrick watches me like he’s seeing someone who’s never had a candy bar before. Then again, I don’t think he’s ever seen me eat a candy bar.

  “Mom?”

  “Hmm?”

  “When you were dead, did you see anything?”

  “What do you mean, like a light at the end of a tunnel or something?”

  “Yeah, I guess, or dead people you knew, like your Grandma and Grandpa?”

  “No. I didn’t see anything like that.”

  “Did you see anything at all?”

  “I don’t remember. Why?”

  “I was just wondering.”

  “You shouldn’t wonder about stuff like that.”

  “Why not?”

  “I don’t know…because you’re too young, and it’s morbid.”

  “What about when you were in a coma? I Googled it and some people dream about stuff they hear going on around them while they’re out.”

  “Really? That’s interesting, but no. I didn’t have any dreams I can remember.”

  “Oh.”

  I’m not sure he believes me, but he seems genuinely disappointed. As insightful as he is, there’s no way I’m telling him what I saw, where I thought I went, and with who. Better to change the subject altogether before he keeps on about it.

  “So—I bet Dad was a real basket case, huh?”

  “Yeah, but I handled him. You know, like you do when he freaks out about stuff. Calm him down by talking and suggesting good ideas.”

  “Thanks for doing that. I’m sure he appreciates it.”

  “I’m not sure he knows I did it.”

  “And that’s the magic of it.”

  “Magic?”

  “To do things for people and not have them realize it. They may later on, but not right away, or maybe never. There’s something to be said for that. I know you did it for me, too, and I appreciate it—that you kept things together while I was away.”

  “If it happened again though, not that I want it to, but I think I
’d be all right. I mean, I think I could handle things.”

  “I know you could, and it’s good you learned something about yourself. Now—don’t you think it’s time you went back to school?”

  “What? But then who’s gonna sneak you sodas and candy?”

  “You’ve got a point, but I don’t want you to miss classes for me. I’m fine now.”

  “Yeah, but I was getting so sick of everyone looking at me and not knowing what to say. It’ll be better if I go back next year, kind of like starting from a beginning.”

  “All right then. I guess I understand.”

  “Good. Besides, I can help you with Christmas decorating and stuff.”

  Now there’s a legitimate thought that actually could exacerbate another attack. “Hey, can you text Dad for me? Ask him to pick up a cheeseburger, some fries, and a milkshake—tell him it’s for you.”

  “What kind of milkshake?”

  “Strawberry.”

  * * *

  My sugar rush from the soda and candy is short-lived. I’m crashing fast and beginning to wonder if they laced the broth with a sedative. I wouldn’t put it past them to try and keep me down so they can run more of their tests.

  Patrick is at the foot of the bed playing with his phone, and if it weren’t for his occasional squeaky position shift in the vinyl chair, I wouldn’t know he was there at all. My head feels like a lead balloon and my eyelids are even heavier. They close for a minute or two then open up again because it is too quiet. The roaring nothing makes it hard for me to fall asleep, so I keep my eyes shut and hum the melodies of the tones I remember. They had become lullabies, sort of. It’s odd, but I miss them. I would like to be light again—graceful, moving around with little effort. I imagine myself gliding through soft rippled halls. It’s all so dreamy, but solid and weighty is how I feel now. Every part of me is present and accounted for in fleshy mass. Now that I’m here, I wonder if I was really there—with them.

  It could have been this unknown sickness everyone thinks I have that caused me to hallucinate. It’s possible for a brain tumor or something like that to create neuroses and psychoses, I’m sure of it. Yes, I was in a coma, but where did I really go? Deep inside my own mind or into outer space—it should be easy to answer, but I still don’t want to admit something is or was psychological. Who would?

  They’re gone now though, the tones. Whatever happened—like maybe I did hit my head on the slot machine and dislodged a tumor—it seems to have cured me. Over time, I’m confident I’ll be able to forget about it, all of it, and as far as I’m concerned, Dr. Light never existed. I’ll finally have the peace I’ve been wanting, even if I have to make it myself. It will take time, but I’ll just have to be patient.

  “Stacy?” someone whispers.

  I’m asleep, I think, but I can hear. I can’t open my eyes. It might be them—they’re back.

  “Wake up, it’s me. I came to see you.”

  The voice is familiar. I know it well, but it sounds oceans away. In my sleep, in my head, I shout, “I’m here. Wait for me. I’m coming.” I struggle and swim through dark blue waters to get there—get to consciousness. Then I remember the voice and who it belongs to. I emerge from the indigo darkness with a big splash and call out her name, “Cally.”

  “Mom, you were dreaming.”

  “Patrick?”

  “Was Cally here?”

  He turns his head and looks to the door. Jon is standing there holding two paper bags of fast food. He has a severe expression on his face. “Pat, did you leave the room?”

  “Just for a minute, to get a soda.”

  “What is it?” I ask. “What’s going on?”

  “Nothing,” Jon says. “Let’s eat.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  The aroma of cheeseburgers and fries is too overpowering to think about anything else. Jon walks over and sets the bags down on my tray table.

  “How did you do with lunch?” he says.

  “Fine, but I was still hungry. Thanks for bringing the food. Pat told you it was for me?” I look over at him in the corner and he shrugs his shoulders.

  “At first I didn’t believe him,” Jon says. “It’s not like you to want cheeseburgers, fries, and a milkshake, but since you were craving candy bars and soda earlier, I figured what the hell.”

  “Maybe Mom woke up a different person,” Patrick says.

  “You Google way too much. A lot of that information is just a bunch of crap,” Jon says.

  “I agree,” I say.

  Jon hands Patrick his food then arranges mine. As soon as everything is divvied up, he sits on the side of the bed next to me in the chair and eats his cheeseburger, talking between bites. “Looks like they came in and fixed the bed while I was gone. You’ll have clean sheets tonight.”

  “More like clean sandpaper,” I say. “I can’t wait to go home and sleep in our bed.”

  “Soon,” he says. “Did you get a nap?”

  “I must have. I don’t remember anyone coming in to fix the bed or taking the food tray from lunch.”

  “It’s good that you’re getting some rest.”

  “Yeah, I guess. After dinner, can you please have them take this urine tube out? It’s driving me crazy. I feel like I have to go all the time.”

  “It’s already taken care of. I saw the doctor’s order written in your chart. If you keep eating, they’re going to discontinue the IV fluids, too.”

  “Really, when?”

  “Sometime tomorrow…”

  “Fine.”

  “Want to go for a little stroll after dinner?”

  “I’d love it. I think my butt is numb from being in this chair. Can we go outside?”

  “No. I was thinking just around the hospital floor.”

  “What floor is this anyway?”

  “The fourth floor, where post-surgical patients recover. You were in the ICU for a while, but after you pulled your breathing tube out and they were sure your respirations were normal, they transferred you here.”

  “Oh. I thought this was an isolation floor.”

  “No. They can put up signs for those precautions anywhere.”

  “And why did they, exactly?”

  “It was just in case whatever you had was contagious. The infectious disease doc that works for the hospital thought it would be a good idea, and I was in no position to argue about it.”

  “Oh.”

  “Don’t worry. It was all normal protocol.”

  “Did a lot of people try and visit?”

  “They called me first to ask. I told them not to come.”

  “Why?”

  “I didn’t think you’d want anyone to see you like this.”

  He’s right. I wouldn’t. “Not even Cally, though?”

  Patrick coughs real loud and kind of phony. He has his earbuds in, but I know he’s listening. They’re hiding something, the two of them. Before I can ask again, Jon scrunches his fast food papers and gets up. “I’m going to step out and talk to one of the nurses about coming in to remove your catheter, so we can take that walk,” he says.

  “Great,” I say.

  As soon as he leaves, I try Patrick. “Patrick,” I snap and wave my hand. He pretends he doesn’t see me for a minute then finally takes notice.

  “What?”

  “Is there something going on that you and your dad aren’t telling me?”

  He glances down at his phone. “Not that I know of.”

  If Patrick doesn’t want to talk about it, it must be serious. I wonder what could be going on. The last thing I remember about Cally…I couldn’t get in touch with her and had to call Tara. Geez, I hope nothing bad happened.

  Jon comes back into the room with a nurse. He looks over at Patrick who is still staring down at his phone.

  This is ridiculous.

  “Hello, Mrs. Troy,” the nurse says. “Dr. Troy says you’re ready to get that Foley out.”

  “Yes, please,” I say. Everything else will have to wait.


  The nurse walks me into the bathroom and has me sit on the commode. She has a syringe in her hand. “What’s that for?” I say.

  “To take the saline out of the balloon that’s keeping the catheter in your bladder.”

  “It’s fine,” Jon says.

  There’s hardly room for the three of us in here, but I know Jon won’t leave. At least Patrick has the decency to hide in the corner of the room where he can’t see what’s happening. I can’t imagine it would be something he would want to observe, anyway.

  The nurse’s hand is a little shaky. I’m sure Jon watching over her shoulder is making her nervous, but there’s no needle on the syringe, so I’m not worried about her jabbing me on accident. She attaches the hub of the empty syringe into a port along the tubing and pulls back slowly. Clear liquid fills the chamber and the tubing slides out.

  “Better?” Jon says.

  I feel a little bit of a burning sensation, but it’s not something I’m going to mention. “Yeah,” I say. “Much. Now can I have a little privacy, so I can go on my own?”

  “I’ll need you to stand up for a minute so I can put the measuring hat back into the commode,” the nurse says.

  “What?” I say.

  “It’s to measure your output. Just stand up,” Jon says.

  I grab hold of the metal rail attached to the wall next to the commode and pull myself up. The nurse raises the toilet seat and sets in what looks like a white hat turned upside down. Then she lowers the seat again. “Okay. You’re all set. You can sit back down.”

  I do as she says, then they both leave the bathroom and shut the door. It stings, but I imagine that’s normal considering I’ve had the tube in there for nearly two weeks. The nurse comes back in when I’m finished and helps me up.

  “Strange,” she says, holding the white hat. “It smells really sweet.”

  Oh, great.

  Jon rushes back into the bathroom. “Will you do me a favor, and test it with a glucose stick?”

  “Sure,” she says. “That’s a good idea.”

  She leaves for a moment, then returns with a skinny little strip she dips into the white hat. After a minute or two, they both look down at the result. “It’s perfectly normal,” she says.