by Smith, Aaron
The ambulance would be there soon, the 911 operator assured her. She dropped the phone, knelt down, and began to try to breathe into Joseph’s tiny mouth. Her mind prayed as her body trembled and her hands held the drowned child.
Brandon stood a few feet away and watched. He thought he saw something descend from above and touch Joseph, something not solid and quite dark, like a shadow cast by nothing. He didn’t know what it was, but the sight of it made him suddenly cold. He shivered once and then forgot about the shadow and about being cold when he heard a tiny, soft cough come from Joseph.
“He’s alive!” Katherine cried out, her voice cracking. “Thank God, he’s alive!”
Brandon felt relief mixed with confusion. He stood there and struggled to understand what had just happened. He had been sure his brother was dead. What had brought him back? Was it the praying or the rice or his mother’s breathing into him? Brandon wondered if it mattered. After all, Joseph wasn’t dead and that meant Brandon was in a lot less trouble, but something felt weird, something felt wrong. Katherine was hugging Joseph now, so tight that it looked to Brandon like she might crush him. Brandon knew he should have felt happiness, but he felt like something was very wrong. The cold in the air came back and Brandon shivered. Then he heard the sirens.
Chapter 2
Harold Saunders parked in the visitors’ lot and rushed from his car to the reception desk. Katherine had been too panicked to tell him much over the phone. He thought Joseph was alive, or had been when she had called, but that was all Harold knew. His heart was beating fast and hard and he could barely breathe. He slammed his fists on the front desk and tried not to shout at the woman behind the computer.
“My son, I’m looking for my son!”
“Can I have a name, sir?”
“Saunders,” he answered, his head spinning so fast that he almost gave his name instead of the child’s. “Joseph Saunders; he’s three years old. My ex called and said they were bringing him here. I need to see … I need to know … I need … is he alive?”
“Just give me a moment, sir.”
The children’s ICU was on the fifth floor. Harold was even more nervous when he made it up to that level. His nervousness turned to anger, livid and bordering on outburst, when he saw Katherine pacing around a waiting area full of chairs, small tables and heaps of magazines. She was walking back and forth as if that would somehow speed up time. Brandon was there too, sitting on one of the chairs with his eyes closed. His posture said he was awake, but his face looked drained. The poor kid, Harold could see, was exhausted.
“Hello, Harold,” Katherine said as she turned in his direction, stopped pacing, and stared at him. Her voice was cold.
“How is he? What the hell happened?” Harold asked.
Katherine sighed.
“He’s alive, but that’s all I know. The doctors are with him now. He almost drowned in the bathtub.”
“How could that happen, Katherine?” Harold had not called her Katie, as he had when they were young and in love, since the split. “Where were you while he was in the bath? He’s three, for God’s sake.”
Katherine looked at the floor. She couldn’t look him in the eye and say it. She knew she was to blame and had no defense against the anger Harold would express when she spoke. This time it truly was her fault; there could be no debate about that.
“I … I wasn’t home.”
Harold exploded.
“You left the boys alone? You stupid bitch! And what was so important that you had to do that? Wait a minute, don’t tell me! You had to run out and see that sister of yours because she can’t handle her marriage without crying and calling for you to bring her a box of fucking tissues! Is that right? Is that what happened? And our son almost died because of your family bullshit!”
Katherine trembled. “Do you think I wanted this to happen? Do you think I expected this? It was only for a little while and I thought Brandon could …”
“Brandon,” Harold bellowed in her face, “is seven years old!”
Several nurses stood on the periphery, ready to intercede but hesitant. Brandon stared at his parents, not knowing what to do.
“Excuse me!”
The group turned at once to find the source of the voice that had suddenly shushed them all. A white-coated man with salt and pepper hair and glasses had appeared in the waiting area. Everybody stopped.
“Mr. Saunders, Mrs. Saunders,” the doctor began.
“Yes,” the parents said in unison, stepping forward in synchronicity.
“Your son is alive and breathing on his own. He took a lot of water in his lungs and it was very close, but he’ll survive.”
“So he’s all right?” Katherine started forward but Harold grabbed her, not violently, but firmly, by the wrist to stop her.
“I said he was alive and in no more danger of dying today,” the physician continued. “I did not say he’s all right. The fact is, Mrs. Saunders, that I don’t know anything for certain yet. In cases like this, there is a possibility of brain damage, but it’s too soon to tell. At the very least, the poor boy is exhausted and will have to rest before we can run any further tests or communicate with him. Even in the best possible circumstances, he’ll have to remain here for at least a few days. We don’t want to take any chances with an event like this.”
“Can we see him?” Harold asked.
“You can go in one at a time. Please don’t touch him and don’t do anything that might wake him. As I said, he needs rest more than anything right now. And I don’t think his brother should go in yet. I’ll return within the hour to check on him.”
“Thank you,” Harold said as the doctor left. He turned to Katherine. “Go ahead in and see him, Kath.” His tone was calmer now and the anger had been pushed aside, at least for the moment. “I’ll stay out here with Brandon. He and I need to talk about this.”
When Katherine had disappeared behind the door, Harold sat down. He gestured for Brandon to come and sit with him. Brandon, whose mood had calmed when the doctor’s entrance had put a stop to his parents’ argument, marched over.
“Brandon, I don’t want you to think any of this is your fault. I hope you’re not blaming yourself.”
“I thought you were going to hit Mom.”
“I wouldn’t do that, son. Your mother and I don’t like each other much anymore, but I don’t hit people. We were both worried about Joseph and we were loud because we were upset. That’s over now. What we have to do now is hope he gets better and that everything is okay. And I’ll tell you something else, Brandon. After what happened today, you’ll be seeing me a lot more often. Maybe your mother shouldn’t have to spend so much time taking care of you guys. Maybe she needs more help than I thought. I’m going to see what I can do about being around more.”
“That’s good, Dad. Can I ask a question?”
“Of course you can. Is it about what happened today?”
“Yeah, it was weird.”
“What was weird, Brandon?”
“Well … when Joseph was dead … he was dead, wasn’t he? I mean he wasn’t moving and he was turning blue and he didn’t breathe. Well, when he was dead and then Mom made him breathe again and he was alive, I saw something.”
“What do you mean? What did you see?”
“I saw this shadow … like it came from the ceiling or the sky and went into Joseph when he came back. And now I think maybe it was like … his spirit or something. Do you know what it was, Dad?”
“No, son, I don’t, but maybe you just thought you saw something because it was such a hard time to go through. That happens sometimes and we see things we don’t understand because of all the feelings we have when something bad is happening. So some people might say it was a spirit or something and other people will say that you can’t really be sure what you saw or if you really saw anything at all. Do you understand what I mean?”
“Yes, Dad, but …”
“What? Did it scare you?”
�
�I don’t know if I was scared or not … but it was really cold when I saw it.”
Katherine looked down at the fragile form on the hospital bed. If it had not been for the wires running to the machines that monitored Joseph’s heart rate and breathing, anyone who had looked would have thought the child was just taking a nap. Katherine smiled as she saw him there, the right color again and the deathly blue gone away, but her smile departed as she remembered that it was all her fault that he was there at all. She should have known better. She should have been the mother she was supposed to be. She muttered a string of curses, directed at her guilty conscience, and walked out of the room.
“Go ahead and see him, Harold,” she said solemnly as she returned to the waiting area.
Harold got up and Katherine sat down with Brandon. “How do you feel, kiddo?” she asked, patting his hair and trying not to let him see how upset she was.
“I’m okay, Mom. I’m sorry I messed up.”
“It was my fault Brandon, not yours.”
“When can we go home?”
“Soon, but Joseph will have to stay here tonight. We’ll go though, so you can get some sleep. You won’t have to go to school tomorrow.”
“Okay, Mom. Tomorrow I’ll clean the rice out of the tub.”
They both looked up as Harold emerged from the other room and walked slowly back over to where they sat. He looked tired, a reminder to Katherine that despite the hostility between the two of them since the divorce, they both cared about the children.
“You two go home, get some sleep,” Harold suggested. “I’ll stay here. I want to be around when the doctor comes back to check on him. Go ahead, Kath. Brandon shouldn’t be here any longer. This is no place for a kid.”
When Katherine and Brandon had left, Harold sat down and pretended to read one of the outdated issues of TIME Magazine that sat on the table beside him. He hardly saw the letters on the pages at all. His mind kept replaying the sight of Joseph, so small and still on the bed in the other room, helpless and having come so close to death. Harold had felt something in there too, something he could not define. He thought also of Brandon’s recollection of the shadow and wondered if his younger son would ever be the same again. The doctor’s words about the possibility of brain damage kept coming back and he couldn’t shake the feeling that something other than the obvious had occurred. He should have been tired from a long day of work followed by the stress of this incident, but he felt wide awake and on the edge of defensiveness, an odd emotion to experience in a hospital lounge. He shook his head and tried to focus on an article about oil drilling in Alaska.
“Still here, Mr. Saunders?” the doctor said, snapping Harold out of his dazed state.
Harold stood up. “I didn’t want to leave until you’d seen Joseph again.”
“Come with me if you want,” the doctor said. “I’m just doing a routine check and hopefully it won’t wake him. We can run more tests in the morning.”
Harold followed the doctor into the small room. He watched as heart rate, pulse, breathing was all checked and double-checked. Joseph did not stir from his slumber.
“Is that a good sign?” Harold asked. “Is it good that he’s still asleep or should he be responding?”
“It’s too soon to be sure of anything. Near drowning is terribly traumatic. It can knock out a strong adult, exhaust him for days. This is a three-year old boy, so it’s got to be rough on him. Even if there’s no permanent damage—and we still don’t know that, so keep that in mind—some lack of function is to be expected for at least a short time. There’s nothing more we can do tonight. You don’t have to stay any longer, and we can’t allow you to sleep in the ICU. Come back tomorrow.”
“But if anything happens tonight,” Harold began.
“I’ll tell the nurse to call you immediately if anything happens, no matter what time it is, but I don’t think anything will.”
Harold shook the doctor’s hand and left the area, took the elevator down to the ground floor, and walked out into the warm spring night. He drove through the streets of Chicago back to the little apartment he had occupied since the split with Katherine. As he drove, he hoped he would be able to get at least a little sleep.
Danielle Hayes paused on the curb to let Harold’s car pass on its way out of the hospital parking area. When her path was clear again, she proceeded across the street and made her way to one of Chicago’s many elevated train stops. The L was the easiest way to get around town, even better than a car, most people thought, as the train lines never suffered the congestion that street traffic often could. Danielle was tired, glad to have reached the end of her long day.
It had been a full day of classes at the University Of Illinois College Of Medicine, followed by a shift of several hours at the hospital where she did volunteer work in order to get used to the routine for when she would eventually be a doctor herself. She boarded the train, plopped her duffel bag down on an empty seat and sat beside it. She knew she was tired, as she had been limping slightly on her way out of the hospital, something that only happened when she had been working too many hours. It had been a good day, although a strange one, tinted by an almost preposterous instance of strange synchronicity, shocking but appreciable by Danielle’s admittedly odd, perhaps even morbid, sense of humor. She sat back in her seat and closed her eyes as the train rumbled along, taking her, finally, to her apartment across town. She couldn’t wait to get home.
At the hospital, Maribel Lopez punched in for her shift and took the elevator up to the fifth floor, finishing her Starbucks on the way, tossing the empty cup in the first waste bin she passed. She picked up the clipboard holding the paperwork on any new admissions she would be required to check in on during the night. It had taken some time for Maribel to get used to the graveyard shift—and she disliked that term being used in a hospital—but she had grown to enjoy the hours. The peace and quiet beat the hectic bustle of the daylight shifts anytime. Few patients were admitted overnight to the children’s ward, as most children slept through the night and were, she assumed, less likely to have accidents during those hours. On most nights, she simply inherited the patients from the earlier shifts and periodically checked in on each of them. Very rarely did she have to call for assistance.
She looked over the charts. The broken leg, the tonsil case and the soccer concussion had all been there yesterday. There were two new arrivals on her list: one was a gunshot victim, a ten-year-old girl. Maribel hated the fact that Chicago’s violence hurt more than just the gang members. Fortunately, the poor child had suffered only a flesh wound to the shoulder and no permanent damage was anticipated. When she flipped the page, she found the stats on a little boy who had almost drowned. She would keep a close eye on him; look for any signs of waking up or any physical distress. The smaller the child was, the more it got to Maribel to see them in any sort of pain, but she tried to keep a thick skin at all times. She kept her mood steady at work and tried to be professional. At home, where no one could see her weaken was where she did most of her crying.
Danielle got off the train, walked the two blocks to her building, yawned on the elevator, and made her way into her apartment, opening the door quietly in case her roommate was asleep. She walked into the living room, tossed her bag on the floor, and crumbled onto the couch, letting out an almost orgasmic sigh as the relief of the comfortable sofa washed over her.
“Rough day?” Claire asked. Her attention was aimed at the TV where a documentary on the theories of ancient civilizations having been influenced by alien visitors was playing. On the floor next to Claire’s chair were a closed sketchbook and a scattering of pencils. Claire had obviously been at work, the constant sketching and scribbling of an art major who had already begun to sell a few of her works to various galleries in Chicago. Claire sounded tired now, but not nearly as tired as Danielle felt.
“Not as rough as long, very long,” Danielle answered, shaking her head so her blonde hair whipped across the back of her neck, “an
d strange.”
“How was it strange?” Claire asked, her curiosity finally causing her to turn away from the History Channel and look at her friend.
“If I tell you,” Danielle warned, “you won’t believe me. It’s too weird. It was a very big coincidence.”
“So what happened? Was it at school or the hospital?”
“At school; Dr. Stryker’s musculoskeletal class started a week ago and we’re doing one section of the body at a time. Today was feet. You know what daVinci said about them? ‘The human foot is a masterpiece of engineering and a work of art.’ He wasn’t kidding. The feet are full of things going on: twenty-six bones, thirty-three joints, it’s quite a machine. Anyway, Dr. Stryker wheels in this cart with all these Styrofoam containers on it and puts one on each desk and we open them up and inside each one is a foot, preserved in formaldehyde, no ankle, just the foot itself. I guess they send them up from the place in the basement where they keep all the spare parts.”
“Shit,” Claire said, shaking her head, “I’m glad I draw. You med students are sick fucks.”
“Well somebody has to do it. Without doctors, who would you go to when you get carpal tunnel from playing with pencils and paintbrushes all day?”
“Okay, okay,” Claire gestured in mock surrender. “So what happened with the foot in the box?”
“It was mine,” Danielle said with a giggle.
“You can’t be serious!”
“But I am, dead serious. I didn’t even realize it at first! How fucked up is that?”
“Did you tell anybody?”
“No. No need to make a fuss, but it was hard to keep a straight face. Anyway, nobody in the class knows about my prosthetic, so why mention it at all?”
