Something To Dream On

by Rinella, Diane

  If there were just some way to let her know that I am here. The entire ride over, I tried to show Jensen I was with him, but every effort failed. I miss my body—that body I hated for so long. How is that for irony?

  Instinct says I can pull myself back inside it, but something is warning me that it has been wrapped in caution tape. Is the fear that accompanies that the reason why a moment ago the world started twisting?

  A nurse dashes in. She’s got that look—that look that comes from being taught what to do in situations where there is a problem with the patient but you are not to panic. She checks the activity on the monitor, and then instructs Mom to clear her stuff and go for a walk.

  “What's going on?” Mom asks in panic. The nurse tells her I'm having a seizure and ushers her out. “A seizure? But she’s not shaking. How can you just come in and claim she is having a seizure?”

  “We saw it on the monitor at the nurse’s station. Non-convulsive seizures are not uncommon for coma patients. Give the doctor some time to make sure everything is okay, and we will come for you in a minute. Meanwhile, try to relax.”

  “Relax?” Mom screams. “My baby's having a seizure, and you’re telling me to relax?” The doctor comes in and does nothing other than watch the machine as its needle flips out. “Why isn't anybody doing anything?”

  Jensen returns with Mom’s coffee, hears the news, and then ushers Mom out to calm her. I’m torn between following them and staying to find out what is wrong. The decision is made when a familiar voice comes from behind. “Good afternoon, Lizetta.”

  The carrot-topped man in the suit has returned. “What in craziness is going on?”

  He sighs. “Why is it I never get the smart ones? You were hit in the head with a piano. Your body is in a coma.”

  “I know that part! What’s the deal with the seizure?”

  He shrugs. “It comes with the territory. I know you are not a doctor, but you must have studied at least a little of this in school.”

  He’s so nonchalant that it compounds my heartache. While he hasn’t told me I am not coming back, he has implied that it would take a miracle. Doesn’t he understand the pain I’m experiencing over how I may never be with my family again? Maybe that means little to him, but the thought of no more camping trips, no more Christmas mornings, no more long evenings gathered around a dinner table, means more than I can place value on. Fear of losing that is keeping me in the fight. He has to help me. “If you are my guardian angel, then you know how much it breaks my heart to see my family suffer. Can’t you put me back in my body so we can be done with this mess?”

  “You can pop in right now, but that body is toast.”

  “What do you mean, toast? I’m not coming back?”

  “Not in that busted body.”

  What? No! He can’t—

  Wait a second. That was some interesting wording.

  Harold takes a seat on the edge of the bed while nurses come and go. “What is it with your obsession over that body? For years you hated it. Now you are clamoring for it back. Funny what a little perspective can do. Well, if you get back in it, in this condition, you definitely won't be around anymore to help Jensen.”

  My words come out with hesitation as I stare at my former shell. “Dear God, this can’t be.” He’s right. I used to hate that body. Now I’d give just about anything for it.

  Harold’s eyes show that my pain hits a chord. He swallows back sorrow, and the sensitivity that I so desperately need comes through. “Look, dear, I really am sorry, but there is only so much that can be done.” He looks me straight in the eyes while taking my hands. Part of me doesn’t want him near me, but the other part appreciates finally feeling someone’s touch. I just want to hang on to him and cry. “I wasn’t kidding about how things went differently than they were supposed to.”

  “What was supposed to happen?”

  Gently he shakes his head. Empathy fills his eyes. Even with all those jokes, he can’t hide that he is hurting for me. “Trying to make something happen because someone told you to does not address your problems.”

  “If I am going to die anyway, what does it matter?” This means I can’t be meant to die!

  “Bodies die; souls don’t. That is why we are always so concerned about them. How else can you explain the level of compassion you show others over that which you show your body?”

  He reminds me of Jensen on the night of our first date. I hate to admit how right he is.

  “Lizetta, even if you could go back in time, you have knowledge now. A little knowledge can change how we see the world. The seizure was the first of three warning shots. Please, use your time wisely. There are people who need the understanding that only you can give. Save them, and in the end you will save yourself.”

  Harold fades out, and I’m more sad and confused than ever. Some lousy guardian angel.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  Sunday, July 23

  Moments gathered around a picnic table should be reserved for happy occasions, not for discussing the termination of a loved one’s life. No one wants to admit that is the real reason why we are here among the peace of the lake. Is this really the right place for a conversation of this magnitude? Then again, this conversation doesn't belong anywhere on earth, which makes me wonder if we are actually in Purgatory, even though the situation makes us feel like we are in Hell.

  After a series of small seizures, the doctors pulled Paul aside and gave him the gentle suggestion that the family consider taking action. How can they overlook the passion with which we are praying? How we spend every second we can by her side, holding on to hope and begging God to grace us with even the slightest twitch of her finger? It’s obvious that, in the doctor’s eyes, Lizetta will never recover. I absolutely loathe us all, because we are starting to accept that diagnosis as well.

  How can I let myself think that for even a moment? It must be because this whole situation has me feeling so lost that I’m crying one moment and then ready to scream the next. Or maybe it’s because I’ve been losing track of the days since both Lizetta’s accident and when I last ate. I’m sure it is also tied into how my brain flips between screaming for a drink and sending messages of things that may not exist, like the sensation on my right that tells we have company. How can there be no hope for Lizetta when I feel her here?

  Then again, if she is here, she couldn’t also be in the hospital, meaning …

  The thought sends waves of cold through my body.

  Lizetta's mom sits across from me, staring at the water. Judy’s blonde hair is clipped up, and little tufts of it flutter in the breeze. It reminds me of how lovely Lizetta’s looks in the sun, and I want to puke. It’s not because the love of my life looks like her; it’s because the entire family has signed medical directives, and the woman who gave Lizetta her life now has the power to take it away. They claim I have a say, but I have to face that I am powerless over whatever decision this woman makes. All I can do is pray she does the right thing. Lord, what I would give for a miracle right now.

  Jimmy’s head has been down the entire time. He is probably the reason why I think Lizetta is here. Every now and then I catch a glimpse of his golden hair and swear Lizetta's next to me. Etta’s exactly were she would be if Lizetta really were in that spot, sitting behind us both. It makes it harder to believe the screaming in my gut that Lizetta is among us is wrong.

  The tug of war of my emotions is becoming unbearable. Paul's eyes keep turning to me with concern. I shoot him a forced smile and nod that I'm still among the clean and sober. He gives me a subtle thumbs up, telling me it’s the same on his side, yet our eyes scream that neither one of us knows how we are managing to hold on.

  Paul takes Judy’s hand and then looks straight across the table at Jimmy and I. “Anyone want to make this a little easier by starting? If it’s on your mind, say it. No one is going to get bent at anyone.”

  Judy whispers so quietly that we almost can't hear her. “I don't want my darling to suff
er anymore.” Her eyes remain on the lake, and my lungs lock up in fear of what she means.

  “What are you saying, honey?” Paul asks.

  “Nothing. I'm not saying a thing. It's more of a prayer.”

  I breathe again.

  “I seem to be praying every moment,” Jimmy says, “but I don't even get the slightest sign that it's working. Except …”

  “Except what?” Paul asks. “Does this go back to what you were telling me the other day?”

  “It's just that I can swear she's here with us, but I can’t tell you why I feel that way.”

  Paul looks to me for my piece. Maybe I’m just wiped out, but my thinking she is here can’t be an illusion brought on by hope and the occasional glance at like-colored hair. “Jimmy is right. It’s easy to think that it is all in my head, but since we sat down, the feeling that she is here has been so strong that I swear my side keeps buzzing.”

  We may be here to talk about options, but I know where this conversation is headed. We either wait and do all we can to keep her, or we take away her nourishment. If the feeding tube is removed, she will shrivel up from the inside and die a grotesque death.

  Maybe it's selfish. Maybe this is just me imagining how it would feel and how I wouldn’t want to go that way. The reality is that my poor girl is suffering, and I can’t decide what would hurt her more—waiting it out or starving her.

  My gut grips at the thought of how much pain starvation must bring. But what if she is in some other type of pain? Is she in mental agony until she gets to move on? By keeping her alive, have we thrown her into misery? Does she hate us for our selfishness? Or does she cherish how we fear losing her? If Lizetta isn’t staying on Earth, why should our selfish desires delay her finding peace in Heaven?

  This is crap. I want my girl back, and I will never have her again if we starve her. I’m done with this conversation, and I let everyone know the subject is closed. “May twenty-seven,” I stand and state in no uncertain terms. All eyes go to me. “Lizetta set that date, and that's the day I'm marrying her. By then she will have fully recovered and will be ready to proceed with the wedding of her dreams, which we are all going to make sure she gets. You told me I have a say, and I insist that she and I marry on May twenty-seven.”

  Jimmy slams his hands onto the table and seconds my motion. “May twenty-seven!”

  Paul gives a firm thumbs up as Judy nods in agreement. She then looks up to me and mouths “Thank you” for allowing her mind to relax a little longer over the struggle it faces. With that endorsement of my declaration, the hope that was so fleeting for all of us just a moment ago now covers her face. It puts a knot in my throat, because she looks just like Lizetta did on the night I told her about my past, right after the crying stopped and her acceptance set in. As much as I feared that after she had time to think about it she would leave me, the comfort she brought that night had me feeling as if I had been bathed by the compassion of angels.

  I need out of here, because if I keep looking at Judy, I’ll either lose my composure with tears or head off to the bar to lose my sobriety.

  With Etta’s leash in hand I head home—straight home—to mark my calendar and drop off Etta. Then I’m off to be sure my future bride knows the wedding is still on.

  The lamp’s glow puts me in the spotlight as I sit on the sofa and stare at a bottle of tequila. The cap hasn’t even been cracked, yet defeat weighs my heart. I held fast to the belief in miracles and that May twenty-seven will be the happiest day in my life, until I got another look at Lizetta in that hospital bed.

  I should have dumped this crap Laura brought down the drain so I couldn’t dumpster dive for it later. Worse, I actually watched her when she left and saw her trash it. She isn't even here, yet she’s still an enabler.

  Judging by how my eyes are locked on it, this tequila must hold the key to the universe. A shot is all I need—just enough to take the edge off.

  A clean glass sits in front of me. If I use a glass and don’t drink directly from the bottle, I can monitor myself. It’s not like I would be chugging and not paying attention.

  Jensen reaches for the bottle. Yelling at God may cheese Him off further, but something has got to give! “Please, can’t you see that we need you?”

  Etta barks as Jensen grabs the bottle. “I love you, too, honey,” he says. “And yeah, I know, I’m an idiot.” He cracks the cap, and just the smell of the stuff seems to make his muscles unclench; yet he swallows hard, like it also makes his stomach sour. “A know-it-all doctor told me the love of my life only has a few days to live,” he justifies as he pours. “I’m entitled to this and a lot more.”

  Don’t you dare take on that tone, mister! I am going to make it back, and if you’ve fallen off the wagon, you are going to be in for one Hades of a surprise when you realize that I know about it! “Please, God! You have got to do something to help him!” Again Etta barks, this time while staring straight at him and whipping her tail to the right. He pauses to look at her, but it doesn’t stop him from raising the glass. “Son of a dang it, Jensen! Stop!”

  Etta’s growl steals enough of his attention to slow him down.

  Wait a second. She’s angry, yet she’s whipping her tail to the right. That’s supposed to be a sign of happiness, yet Jensen says she only does it when I am around.

  The last time Jensen almost drank, Etta was the one who stopped him. I got riled up and … and so did Etta! I wanted to get Jensen food, and she moved to the kitchen when I did. She growled at him when I got upset. When he dumped that beer, I was standing next to the sink. Was Etta trying to show him that I am here? Animals are good at sensing emotions. Many people believe that they are also good at sensing supernatural beings. Maybe I can make this undead ghost thing work for me after all.

  Jensen brings the glass to his lips. I take to running around the room and screaming gibberish while letting my sense of panic build. Etta chases behind as I run across the sofa and over Jensen’s lap. Her tail whips him in the face when she darts over him and lands on the coffee table. When she jumps off, her back paw hits the bottle. Jensen saves it from wobbling over, then slams down his glass. His fists are tight enough to tense his shoulders. Crap, he looks pissed! Fear creeps through me. He reminds me of my father.

  He breathes deeply once, twice, and after the third time, he releases his tension. I sigh in relief when he sits on the floor and nurtures Etta like a newborn. “Shh. It's one in the morning, and you're going to wake the neighbors.”

  I love Etta, but son of a bitch, she's making this harder! My hand smooths over her with the softest touch I can give. This isn’t her fault. Etta knows I am in danger and is trying to help.

  God, I want to strangle something!

  I pop up and turn away from Etta. She deserves better than to think my anger is directed at her. It’s aimed at the only one who deserves it. I look straight to Heaven and tell off the guy who thinks he’s such a big shot. “God dammit! How the fuck could you let this happen to such a wonderful person? You want us to be good, and when we are you strike us down! How could you let this happen to me after all the months we spent working together? I would beg, and you would give me an inch, and I would say thank you. Every inch you gave I would turn into a yard before I would beg again. That was our deal! Now you fucking do this!”

  My voice turns scathing, because I now loathe the man it is directed at. “You hurt the sweetest person on the planet. Was that the problem? That she’s an angel and you want her back? Are you testing me like you did when you took Eddie right in front of me? Is that it? Are you saying that it is my fault? That you will keep fucking with me, time and again, until I destroy myself? How dare you!”

  I grab the glass and throw it at Him. It smacks the ceiling, and then shatters on the floor. That smack wasn’t loud enough. I need something bigger, something bolder to convey how I have had it with this guy! “Do you think you can make her happier than I can? Bullshit! Screw you! Screw you and your supposed compassion. If yo
u gave a shit about either of us, you never would have allowed this!”

  I raise the bottle to toast the prick who thinks he is such hot shit. “Screw you, and cheers!”

  Panic sets in and makes me forget my limitations, so I run to Jensen and swat at the bottle. “Jensen! No! Don’t you dare!”

  Etta springs into action and goes into a sprint, giving her enough momentum to knock Jensen on his butt. Tequila sprays across the room. The bottle flies and hits the coffee table, causing more to spray. Jensen rushes to protect my wedding magazines, budget, and tiara, but it’s too late. He takes the sleeve of his shirt to the papers, wiping frantically. “No! No! No! This did not happen! I swear to God, Lizetta, I am not like your dad.” He drops to his knees, and I’d give anything to tell him I understand why he is crumbling, and that this is even more proof of how he is nothing like my father. “I’ve ruined her. I’ve destroyed the last that she left behind.” He clutches the magazines to his chest while doubling over into sobs.

  He’s right, God. I want to defend you in this, but I can’t.

  Jensen takes the tiara to the sink and rinses off the alcohol before drying it with a touch so delicate that you would think it were made of paper-thin glass. “What have I done?” he questions over and over. “I’m so sorry, Lizetta. Please don’t hate me when you see this. Really, I haven’t drunk a drop of it.” Tears fall into the tequila as he mops it off the table, nearly buffing it dry before meticulously returning everything. He stares down at my belongings, and I would give anything to be able to dry the tears that rain. “I swear that I’ll tell you the truth, that I almost drank. I’ll tell you, because you are going to make it back here.”

  Finally, he grabs the bottle and sticks the neck directly into the drain. “I swear, Lizetta, somehow you are protecting me. That scares the hell out of me, because if you're here, then you are not in your body. Every time I feel you with me outside of the hospital, I fear that no one's called yet to tell me the bad news.