Manifesting Shadow, #1

by Church K Calvert

  “I see,” I said, then I remembered her first question, “So, why am I here today?”

  All at once, she appeared to be addressing someone else.

  “It’s the most unusual situation. To the common observer, it would appear that she was in an unconscious state, in a coma if you would. However, our tests indicate an unusual state of REM sleep, something I’ve never seen before, as is the other victim. It’s like a double phenomenon if you exclude the situation from the other day.”

  Then I heard my mother’s frantic voice.

  “I don’t understand, Doctor, when is she going to wake up? What’s wrong with her?”

  The person from my dreams spoke again, but as my dream state faded and reality sets in, she appeared standing in front of me, in a white coat, clipboard in hand, her expression perplexed.

  “Mrs. Blake, I promise you as soon as we know anything, we will let you know as well.”

  “How soon can we start getting answers? We’ve been here for days,” my mother asked again, frustration evident in her voice.

  “I don’t know.”

  I could hear monitors and machines, beeping and buzzing around me. I couldn’t help wondering how many times in my life I would wake up in the hospital. Knowing how this charade would play out, I struggled to sit up in an attempt to make a break for the adjacent restroom.

  “Dani!”

  “Danielle!”

  “Miss Blake!”

  “Yup,” is all I could muster as I undertook the task of getting up out of the bed.

  “Don’t get up!” my mother said.

  “Get my team in here,” the doctor half-shouted with urgency from the doorway. I raised my hands to silence everyone, then renewed my efforts to extract myself from the bed. I tore an IV from my arm and a similar device attached down by my thigh received similar treatment. That one hurt.

  “Stop!” they ordered, but I feigned not to hear. Despite their attempts to stop me, I managed to squeeze into the bathroom, shutting the door quickly behind me and locking it.

  I heard about ten voices from behind the door, all talking at once.

  “What’s going on?”

  “Don’t lock the door.”

  “How do you feel?”

  “Do you remember what happened?”

  I looked into the mirror. Everything appeared the way I remembered it should. I laid my head against the mirror and closed my eyes, preparing myself for the insanity on the other side of the door. I began to decipher the many voices outside.

  “The other patient is coming to, Doctor,”

  I heard a number of the staff retreat from my room and decided it might be safe to open the door.

  All eyes were on me, replete with shock.

  “Sorry . . . I just needed a moment to myself,” I said, bypassing them and reaching for my clothes.

  “Miss Blake, please sit down,” the doctor ordered. I sighed, abandoned my efforts and obediently sat on the side of the bed. My parents were standing to one side of the bed, the doctor was seated on the other.

  “Miss Blake, do you remember what happened the other day?”

  “Other day?”

  “Friday,” she said.

  “What’s today?”

  “Tuesday.”

  “Tuesday?” I repeated.

  “You don’t seem too surprised,” said the doctor.

  “Well, I just feel really well rested,” I said matter-of-factly.

  “What is the last thing you remember?”

  “The accident.”

  “So you remember what happened?” she seemed confused.

  “Yeah, of course, I was right there, wasn’t I? Speaking of the accident, what happened to Peyton? Is she okay?” I had a sick feeling in my stomach.

  “Miss Blake,” my focus begins to waiver with the doctor’s inordinate dramatization of my condition and turned instead to my parents, whose eyes were fixed on the doctor. I realized she must be about to reveal something important so I reverted my attention to her and picked up what she was saying with

  “ . . . this might be hard to grasp, but according to eyewitnesses, there were only four people involved in the accident. Those four people were the bus driver, the driver of the other vehicle, you, and Miss Deason. Both of you were found lying in the road.”

  I fell silent. The question etched on my face. She was completely wrong. I crossed my arms and fixed her with a stare. It was obvious everyone was waiting for my response, but I didn’t know what to say.

  “Peyton? Is she hurt, or . . . ?” I asked, knowing I probably didn’t want to hear the answer.

  “Her condition is identical to yours.”

  “Which is what? I don’t understand.”

  “You two were the only passengers on the bus, you were hit by a semi-truck, at which point you were ejected from the bus onto the road, and you both sustained no injuries.”

  “What?”

  “It’s a miracle the both of you are even alive, it’s impossible that you are both unharmed.”

  I felt unusual emotions coursing through my body: fear, anxiety, disbelief. It was cold and rigid. I sat unmoving for several seconds, staring down the doctor. Angered by her implication that I was unaware of what happened, and apprehensive that something had happened that I didn’t understand.

  “Can we leave now?” I demanded, raising an eyebrow at the doctor.

  She was clearly at a loss and scrambled through her paperwork and charts, trying to find a reason that justified me staying.

  “I believe you need further observation –” she began.

  “Can I leave? That’s all I want to know. I don’t care what your charts say. I don’t care what people think they saw. You said I’m not hurt. So, can I leave?”

  The doctor paused for a second.

  “I’d recommend that you did not, but I have no definitive reason to keep you here.”

  “Wonderful,” I said getting up again and rushing to put on my clothes before anything catastrophic could prevent my departure.

  “Dani, are you sure you –” my mother began.

  I rudely raised my hand to stop her. I felt bad making such a gesture but was too overwhelmed to explain myself. I was mostly dressed and began to walk out through the door.

  “Danielle, you need to fill out your paperwork,” my father interrupted my departure firmly.

  “Can you guys please take care of it? I can’t take another minute in this place,” I appealed. “I’ll meet you at the front.”

  I slipped out of the room, and just around the corner heard a commotion, similar to what had ensued moments before in my room.

  “I’m fine, what’s the big deal?” It was Peyton’s voice. I smiled, understanding how she felt and knowing I wasn’t the only one who thought the situation was ridiculous. I poked my head into her room. She turned my way, relieved to see a familiar face.

  “Want to get out of here?” I asked.

  “You have no idea,” she said and began throwing on her clothes as well.

  “You need a parent to discharge you. Unfortunately, we have been unable to make contact with either one of your parents since your arrival. So, until they get here, we cannot allow you to leave,” a male nurse told her in an overly authoritative manner.

  “I turned eighteen last week. I don’t need anyone to do anything for me,” she responded, firmly. She gathered up her belongings and headed toward me. I grinned and followed her out the door.

  I wanted to get out of that hospital as fast as possible. As we walked, it became very quiet in the main area of the ICU. People stood up to see us better. People came out of their rooms to catch a glance. They looked at us as if they were seeing ghosts. It was a completely captive audience as we passed by. People grabbed the sleeves of the people next to them and pointed our way; people whispered to one another. I tried walking a little faster, becoming more uncomfortable by the second. I felt a tug on my shirt and came to a reluctant halt and turned around.

  “Can you he
lp my grandson?” asked a small, Hispanic woman from behind me. She was perhaps five feet tall, just starting to age, with an expression of pure innocence on her face. I glanced around assuming she couldn’t be talking to me.

  “Me?” I said, indicating myself; she nodded her head.

  “My grandson, he’s very sick,” she said pointing to a room, that I had no desire to enter. “I heard what happened to you was a miracle.”

  She looked at me with hope and so much pain behind her eyes.

  “No . . . I can’t help him . . . I’m nobody,” I said.

  I turned around and walked away.

  As we walked in silence down the hallway, I heard the woman begin to cry. It killed me inside.

  * * *

  “What is it about this girl, Peyton, that struck you so hard?” Dr. Joy asked, right after the conclusion of the story. I was surprised by her order of questioning.

  “I felt sorry for her.”

  “You felt sorry for her?”

  “Of course I did. You see, I had the luxury when I woke up to be in an unknown, unexpected place, not knowing what happened but having my family at my side. I can’t even begin to imagine, having been in the hospital for several days, and wake up, and no one is there waiting for you. What kind of parent . . . No, what kind of person would allow that?”

  “As you said, there was nothing wrong with either of you two, perhaps she wouldn’t have even wanted her parents there,” the doctor suggested.

  “No . . . I’d like to give them the benefit of the doubt, but I saw the look on her face that day. I saw the pain, and I felt it. She appeared so bulletproof to the world like nothing could touch her, but as I got to know her, I saw how fragile she truly was.”

  “What happened to you after that?”

  “Several things happened. My parents were extremely concerned about me. They thought I had some sort of disorder and considered my behavior unusual. I don’t blame them. A couple of weeks later I started seeing a psychiatrist who put me on wonderful drugs, and I’m not going to lie, it helped. It helped me feel stable; it helped me feel real. I felt normal for the first time in a long time.”

  “And how did you feel about what happened with the woman at the hospital?”

  * * *

  After leaving the hospital, I spent the next day locked away in my room, trying to quiet my mind. Nothing helped. It was in overdrive and spinning out of control. I paced back and forth, unable to get that woman out of my head. The idea of returning to the hospital did not sit well with me at all. I’d developed a great distaste for that place. Not to mention, I had no desire to see any of those people’s faces again, but something was drawing me back.

  After much contemplation, I went into the bathroom in my house and examined myself in the mirror. The person looking back was not the person I expected to see. I had grown older. That wasn’t it though. I just didn’t look the way I thought I did. The longer I stared, the more foreign the reflection seemed to become.

  If I returned to the hospital, I didn’t want anyone to recognize me.

  I took some scissors from a drawer and went to work, shearing inches off my hair, cutting away the familiarity; cutting away the confusion that clung to my reflection. It was kindred to ridding myself of a part of myself I had outgrown. My hair was short, a mess. In the mirror, I now saw a hardened heart, distrust, coldness. The amazing thing was, I stared into the mirror and for the first time, I recognized the person staring back at me. I grinned at my reflection and returned to my room to grab a jacket from inside my closet and throw it on.

  Everyone was asleep as I quietly exited the house.

  The hospital wasn’t far from my house, however, it did take almost an hour to walk there. Considering it wasn’t fall weather yet, I grew uncomfortably hot in my clothing. It was nice, however, to have less hair. I felt the wind blow against my neck, and it was comforting to me.

  I reached the hospital very late, almost one o’clock in the morning. When I arrived, I started to wonder what I was doing. What did I expect to find? I proceeded upstairs to where I had been the day before.

  Some people glanced at me, wanting to question my presence, but for some reason thought better of it. I made my way to the room the woman had pointed to and checked inside to see if it was occupied. Hearing and seeing no one, I crept inside and stood at the end of the bed. It was a difficult sight.

  He was a very young boy, younger than my brother, with short, dark hair, his eyes closed. There was a tube down his throat, IVs, and machines hooked up to him at every possible location. Somehow, I sensed he was strong and had endured much already. I could tell his time was running out and knew if I was going to see something I had come on the right night.

  I slipped behind the curtain in the room. It was dark so it would provide concealment should someone unexpectedly come in. I stood silently for several minutes, listening to the beeping of the machines, trying to breathe quietly. I don’t know how long I stood there, waiting. Maybe five minutes, then I felt I had to leave. I slipped out the door and headed back down the hall. As I did so, I heard the all-too-familiar commotion coming from his room. Nurses and doctors sprang into action. People with carts and equipment rushed into the room. I pressed myself against the wall and tried not to listen. I knew what was coming.

  “What happened? I was only gone ten minutes. That’s my grandson, please help him!” The woman from before went running in behind them. She was crying between her pleadings to the doctors. They told her to stand back and leave the room, but she wouldn’t.

  The distance between each beep became less far apart. The doctors raised their voices and shouted multiple commands at a time.

  “His heart’s failing,” I heard in a low but distinct voice.

  I headed down the hallway, but feeling a tug on my arm, turned, expecting to see the woman, but saw no one. I closed my eyes, trying to drown out the noise, scared. I had my back against the wall and slid to the floor.

  My eyes were shut tight and when I opened them, something intrinsic had changed. Everything around me appeared in a green tint, almost dreamy and dark. I watched myself get up, leaving my physical body behind and walked right into that little boy’s room. The ongoing commotion was nothing more than a blur of conversation; no words were audible, and everything seemed slower. I approached his bed and observed them as they worked on him. No one noticed my presence. The doctors’ frustration was palpable as the boy’s life-force began to fade. I watched them glance discreetly at the grandmother as they worked. She stood with her eyes to the ceiling praying. Eventually, each doctor slowed down and stepped back as they realized one by one that their efforts were futile. They all stood back and glanced at the grandmother who still had her head toward the ceiling, praying. They averted their gaze.

  “Call it.”

  Suddenly I sensed someone observing me. I glanced across the bed and saw the little boy standing next to it. He was like a ghost. He had his hand on the rail and was leaned over to contemplate his own lifeless body on the bed. He raised his head to meet my gaze, smiled, and gave me a small wave. I was taken aback by his recognition. He then crossed to his grandmother, seemingly passing right through the doctors, as they attempted to console her. He put his hand on her shoulder and leaned in to whisper something in her ear at the same time pointing at me as if the woman could hear him. She gave a slight nod of her head.

  I glanced down at the bed where his body lay and reached out my hand, I needed to touch him. I needed to know if he was really there, or if I was trapped in some sort of dream. As my hand was inches from his chest, an explosion of energy rushed through my body to my hand. It was a bright green light that created a shock wave in the room and knocked everyone backward.

  I blinked. I was no longer in the room, but back in the hallway, sitting on the floor exactly as before. There was no longer a green tint to the world. It had resumed to its former appearance. My head was spinning, there was an immense amount of pain leaving my body. It felt a
s if poisonous blood was being drained from my heart. It took several moments for the feeling to pass, and when it was gone, it was gone.

  I looked down the hall toward the room, hearing nothing at first; then a commotion, but not like the earlier commotion. People were rushing to the room from all parts of the hospital wing. Some left again cheering, crying, and hugging each other. I heard many of them say:

  “It’s a miracle!”

  I stood up, glanced back one final time. I then ran out of that hospital. I ran down the stairs, ran out the door, ran all the way home.

  I finished my story, and the doctor sat quietly. She didn’t look at me. She twirled her pen in circular motion. I began to wonder if she knew that part of the story was over.

  “You mentioned it felt like a dream,” she said.

  “Yes.”

  “Can you be sure that it really happened? You mentioned watching yourself, a kind of dissociation, in which you questioned the reality of the situation. This memory . . . is it real?”

  I sat back for a moment contemplating her question.

  “I can’t be sure.”

  “I think that’s enough for today,” she said, still not looking at me. She summoned my escorts to take me back to my room without another word.

  As they ushered me out, I kept my eyes on the doctor. She glanced at me for just a second. I couldn’t discern the expression on her face. It was one I had never seen before. I think part of her wanted to believe me, but I think she, like me, was also filled with doubt.

  The days passed slowly that week, in my small cell. The doctor canceled our other appointment, causing me to become nervous. I felt over-exposed to her. I had told her things I had never told anyone else. I feared she would use those things against me; how I was unsure. I became extremely irritated. That afternoon, I was once again greeted by the medication dispenser.

  She was always quiet. She came to my room multiple times a week and never said much. She just checked on me, more than any other dispenser had before. Every time she entered, I gave her the ‘I’m still here’ expression. She would smile slightly and bow her head.