The Return

by Christopher Pike

  I had never heard of such an idea. "Is that legal? I mean, what will happen to the girl? Won't she go running to the nearest priest for an exorcist to get me out of her?"

  "She will leave the body altogether. She'll be fine. She's already made this choice. At night, when she sleeps, her soul converses with me. She feels she is going nowhere in her life. She wants to give you another chance. Her leaving is purely her choice. It is always that way." He paused. "She'll be with me."

  "Who is this girl?" I asked.

  "Her name is Jean Rodrigues. If you wish, that will soon be your name."

  CHAPTER IV

  THE FIRST SENSATION Jean Rodrigues felt was of pressure, as if she were under a thousand feet of water. Every square inch of her skin was being smothered. She wanted to cry out, to shove the water away, but was unable to make a sound or move. For a while she struggled in a black place, then she felt a prick of something cold and sharp, and her struggling ceased, at least for a little while.

  Time went by, jumbled moments of consciousness and unconsciousness. Next, she heard voices. They seemed to come from far off, and she listened to them for what could have been hours before realizing that they belonged to her mother and Carol. She could make no sense of the words except to realize that they both sounded worried. She was about to doze off again, when someone shook her roughly. She moved to push the person away; she really didn't want to wake up yet. But she couldn't find her hand so she opened her eyes instead.

  Her mother was standing over her with bloodshot eyes. It looked as if her mother hadn't slept in a long time. Jean wondered where the hell she was.

  "Mama," she said softly.

  Her mother glanced at someone to the side.

  "Gracias a Dios, she's awake," she said.

  That someone came into view. It was Carol. She also looked exhausted. "How do you feel, Jean?"

  Carol asked, concerned.

  "Tired." She coughed weakly. "Thirsty. Where am I?"

  Her mother thrust her hand out and then held a glass of water to Jean's lips.

  "Sip this. You'll feel better."

  Jean did as she was told. She realized her lips were badly parched, bleeding even. The water went down cool and delicious. Her heart pounded at the back of her skull. Her head did not hurt so much as it felt as if it were being steadily squeezed by a clamp. She swallowed and gestured for her mother to take away the glass. Her vision went beyond them, to the hallway beyond the open door.

  She saw nurses walking back and forth. She was in a hospital, she thought.

  "What happened?" she asked.

  Her mother and Carol looked at each other as if deciding how much to tell her.

  "There was an accident," her mother finally said.

  "Lenny's bedroom balcony collapsed," Carol added.

  "You fell down the hill and hit your head and broke a few ribs," her mother continued. "But now that you're awake, you're going to be all right. But I have to say you gave us quite a scare for a couple of days there."

  "A couple of days?" Jean whispered. "What day is it?"

  "It's Monday morning," her mother said. "You've been unconscious this whole time." Her eyes dampened as she leaned over and hugged her daughter gently.

  Jean had to stifle a groan. Her right side was extraordinarily sensitive. She wondered if the few broken ribs really meant her whole side was caved in.

  Clearly, to be unconscious as long as she had been, she must have suffered a serious concussion. Her mother added, "My poor girl."

  Jean patted her mother's head. "Don't worry, Mama, I feel better than I probably look. I'll be out of here in no time. How're my brothers and sisters doing?"

  Her mother sat up and smiled. "Why, that's sweet of you to ask, since you're the one who needs special attention right now. They're fine. I'll call them and tell them you're awake." She stood. "In fact, I'll go tell the doctor. I think he'll want to examine you."

  Jean smiled. "Is he cute? Did he examine me while I was asleep?"

  Carol and her mother chuckled; they seemed so relieved. "He couldn't keep his hands off you," Carol said.

  Her mother stepped toward the door. "I'll be back in a few minutes. Try sipping a little more water, Jean. Carol, maybe you can help her."

  "Cierto, Mrs. Rodrigues," Carol said.

  "Mamd, " Jean said. "Has Lenny been by to see me?"

  Her mother hesitated at the door. Again she and Carol exchanged looks. "Yes,"

  her mother said. "He's been by."

  "Could you call him as well?" Jean said. "Tell him I'd like some flowers and chocolates and an immediate visit."

  Her mother lowered her head and nodded. "I will."

  She went to leave.

  "Mama," Jean said.

  Her mother paused once more. "Yes?"

  "Te amo," Jean said.

  Her mother had to take a breath. The words had caught her by surprise. Again her eyes dampened no, this time they spilled over and tears ran down her cheeks. "My," she said, touching her heart. "I haven't heard that in a long time.

  I love you, too, Jean. I'll be back as soon as I can."

  When she was gone, Jean gestured for Carol to help her sit up. Carol picked a remote control off the nightstand. "This will make the top half of the bed move up," Carol said. "That way you won't have to bend so much. Ready?"

  "Yes," Jean said. Carol pushed the button and the top of the bed moved her into a sitting position.

  The shift in the blood supply in her body brought a wave of new aches and pains. It felt as if her right knee was pretty screwed up as well; there was, in fact, a thick bandage wrapped around her right leg from the top of her calf to halfway up her thigh. An IV ran into the back of her left hand. But she didn't feel any bandages on her ribs beneath her wrinkled green hospital gown. She wondered what had become of her clothes. Carol carefully sat on the bed beside her. Jean offered her her right hand and Carol took it.

  "You really had us scared," Carol said.

  "Have you been here a lot?" Jean asked.

  "Most of the time. To tell you the truth, the doctor didn't know if you were going to wake up or not. Not until early this morning."

  "He could tell then?"

  "Si. Don't ask me how. It was only this morning they moved you out of intensive care. You should have seen yourself yesterday and the day before.

  You had a ton of tubes and wires hooked up to your body."

  "Sounds kinky." Jean considered. "What's the deal with Lenny?"

  "What are you talking about?"

  "What you and my mother are afraid to talk about I saw the looks you gave each other when I asked about him. What's going on?

  Why isn't he here?"

  Carol sighed; she was trapped. "Jean, what do you remember about last Friday night?"

  Jean frowned. "Everything, I think, up until I fell. I remember we had that stupid fight about whether to waste Juan or not. Then I ran out onto the balcony. I remember staring out over the city." She paused.

  "And the fireworks."

  "What fireworks?"

  "There weren't any fireworks?"

  Carol laughed. "You must have seen those after you fell."

  "No. I remember—just before I fell—the whole city was lit up with colored lights. And I felt so happy." She stopped and shook her head. "But you're right, they couldn't have been fireworks. Who would be setting them off in the middle of the night?" She studied Carol. Her friend had yet to answer her question.

  "You tell me what happened last Friday. Where were you when I fell?"

  "I was in my car, on my way home."

  "What? You left Lenny's house without me?"

  Carol shrugged. "Lenny told me to go. Jean, don't look at me that way. You were out on that balcony for so long. It didn't look like you were ever coming back in."

  "How long is so long?"

  "More than half an hour."

  "I wasn't out there that long. No way."

  "Yes, you were. I came up behind you and called your
name and you ignored me. You were out there at least thirty minutes when I left the house."

  "Was Darlene still there when you left?"

  "Yes." Carol thought for a moment. "It might have been Darlene who said I should go, instead of Lenny. Yeah, I think it was her."

  "And you just did what she said without talking to me first?"

  "I told you, I tried to get your attention but you weren't answering. I figured you wanted to be alone. Or at least alone with Lenny."

  "This is too weird. What does Lenny say happened?"

  Carol hesitated. "I don't know. I haven't talked to him."

  "Why not?"

  Carol averted her eyes. "I don't know how to tell you this. Lenny was on the balcony when you fell. He fell with you. He's in this hospital right now, but he's in worse shape than you."

  Jean could feel her heart pound. "How worse?"

  Carol's eyes filled. "He broke his back in the fall. It looks like he's paralyzed from the waist down."

  "Oh, God," Jean whispered. She thought of Lenny's beautiful body, his powerful legs—now as good as dead. How could this have happened? Why did the balcony suddenly collapse? Carol was shaking her head.

  "I'm sorry," she said. "I wasn't trying to keep the truth from you. It's just that your mother didn't think we should tell you when you woke up. She wanted to wait until you were stronger."

  "I understand," Jean said softly, staring at the far wall, seeing only wheelchairs and impassable stairways, boredom and despair for Lenny. He was so active—

  how would he be able to live? She added, "Is there anything else you want to tell me? That you were afraid to tell me?"

  Carol raised her head and nodded. "There is one other thing. The fall was rough on you. While you were unconscious, you began to bleed, you know, down there. You lost the bebi, Jean."

  Jean blinked. "What baby?"

  "Your baby. You were pregnant, remember?"

  Jean couldn't keep up with the barrage of information. It was true she could remember buying and taking the E.P.T., and failing it. She could also remember telling Carol about it. Yet, at the same time, she had trouble accepting the fact that she had indeed been pregnant. Like it was something that could not possibly have happened to her, not under ordinary circumstances. But there was no arguing with the facts. Strangely, she felt neither relief nor a sense of loss that the baby was gone. She simply felt nothing, as if the whole matter had been someone else's problem.

  "Does my mother know I was pregnant?" Jean asked.

  "Yes. The doctor told her, after your miscarriage. She took it well. She didn't freak out or anything."

  "Bueno. Anything else?"

  Carol smiled sadly. "No. Except that I'm glad you're awake and feeling better."

  Jean patted Carol's hand. "You're a good friend. Thank you for staying with me while I was out. I won't forget that."

  Carol did a double take. "I've never heard you talk that way before."

  "Talk what way?"

  "I don't know, just the way you're talking. You sound nicer than usual."

  Jean nodded. "Maybe the fall did me some good."

  Her mother returned with Dr. Snapple, who must have changed his name to his favorite drink because there was no disguising the fact that he had been born in the Middle East. Dr. Snapple had a thick accent and a face so dark he could have been conceived staring into the sun. He was a big man with fingers as thick as Cuban cigars. Jean didn't find him attractive but competent, preferable for a physician. Dr. Snapple asked her a few questions about how she felt and did a number of tests involving her vision. The results seemed to satisfy him, but when he touched her right side and the back of her head she groaned.

  Not mentioning her miscarriage, he explained that her concussion and broken ribs would take time to heal, that there was no magic procedure to speed her recovery. At the same time, he said she was to stay in the hospital for at least two more days, possibly three or four. Jean fretted over the cost. She had no insurance.

  "Why can't I go home now?" she asked. "If you can't do anything for me?"

  "Because you have been unconscious for over two days," he said. "Who's to say you might not slip back into a coma? We have to keep you for observation."

  "But I won't go back into a coma," Jean said. "It's not possible."

  Dr. Snapple was amused. "Since when did you develop the ability to see inside your own brain?"

  Jean was annoyed. She knew her mother was too proud to accept help from the state. "I don't need to see inside my head to know how I feel. Mama, I shouldn't stay here, you know. How are we going to pay for it?"

  Her mother was staring at her. "You're worried about that? You're not worried about yourself?"

  "Of course I'm worried about the money," Jean said. "We don't have any."

  Her mother smiled faintly. "Don't worry, Jean, we'll find a way." She glanced at Dr. Snapple. "Thankyou, Doctor. I'll make sure she stays here, and in bed."

  Dr. Snapple left and a few minutes later Carol excused herself. For a moment Jean was alone with her mother. It was obvious to Jean that her mother had suffered terribly while she had been unconscious, and that the poor woman didn't know what to say or do now that the worst was over. Jean didn't know if anything had to be said. She just held her mother's hand and smiled at her, and after a while her mother seemed to feel better. Her mother kissed her goodbye and promised to come that evening, after work. She also warned Jean about staying in bed.

  The moment she was gone, Jean got up. She lasted all of five seconds before a wave of dizziness made her sit down quickly. All right, she thought, her brain had to get used to gravity again. Taking several deep breaths, she got up slowly, then sat back down before she could fall over. She did this a few times and eventually was able to stand without feeling as if she were strapped to a Ferris wheel. Her side hurt awfully, as did her right knee. She wondered what she had looked like when they found her. She hadn't heard Lenny come up behind her on the balcony. Not that she could remember, anyway.

  Jean knew she wouldn't rest until she saw him. She limped across the room and found her clothes in the closet. The hospital dry cleaning service hadn't been by since Friday. She saw instantly how much she had bled. Her jeans and top were both stained dark red. She didn't know what to do. The green hospital gown she wore was drafty; she didn't want to go strolling down the halls with her ass hanging out, although she thought she had a very nice ass. Indeed, glancing over her shoulder at her bare behind, she was pleased to see she was still curvaceous even after her special coma diet.

  Jean searched the closet for a robe but didn't find one. She was about to give up and return to bed when she noticed a door in the corner opposite the closet, one that didn't appear to lead into the hallway. Cracking it open a couple of inches she discovered big surprise—that it led into an adjoining room. Her neighbor was a seventy-year-old white woman with a snore like Fred Flintstone's and a wardrobe the equal of Elizabeth Taylor's. The woman had so many clothes jammed in her closet it was as if she planned to attend numerous costume balls on the other side in case she failed to check out of the hospital.

  Jean took one glance at the woman stretched out on the bed and figured the woman would never know if she was missing a dress or not. And so, not many minutes later, wearing a long print gown that she wouldn't have been caught dead in under other circumstances, Jean went searching forLenny.

  She sneaked out of her wing without difficulty, but by the time she reached the hospital lobby she had to sit down to rest. She couldn't decide which hurt worse, her head, her leg, or her side. All together, though, it was one nasty ache. Yet the strange thing was that the pain bothered her only as far as her body was concerned. It didn't depress her inside that she was injured. She accepted it so well she actually surprised herself.

  When she was sufficiently recovered, Jean strolled up to a woman at the reception area. She did her best to appear of sound body and mind but the huge bandage around her head was not something she coul
d make vanish with witty conversation. To make matters worse, the bandage was even stained with blood. But the elderly woman behind the counter didn't seem to notice. She looked up as Jean approached.

  "Can I help you, miss?" she asked.

  "Yes," Jean said. "My brother, Lenny Mandez, is staying in this hospital. He broke his back last Friday. Could you please tell me his floor and room number?"

  The woman put a hand to her mouth. "The poor dear. Is he going to be all right?"

  Jean had to swallow before answering. She wondered what it would be like to see him. She reminded herself that she mustn't break down. "I hope so."

  The woman turned to her computer. "How do you spell that last name?"

  Jean gave her the name letter by letter. She thought it wiser to act like Lenny's sister rather than his girlfriend because surely he was still in intensive care and there might be restrictions as far as visitors were concerned. Indeed, a moment later the woman confirmed her suspicion that he was not in a normal room.

  "He's on the eighth floor, Room Nine," the woman said. "That's a restricted area. You might have to show I.D. to get in."

  "No problem," Jean said. "Thanks for your help."

  "You look like you've been in an accident yourself." the woman observed.

  "Yeah, I fell off a balcony."

  "You were lucky you weren't killed."

  Jean felt a cold wave, goose bumps all over. Had someone just walked over her grave? Felt like it.

  "Yeah," she muttered.

  Room Nine turned out to be many small adjoining cubicles hooked up by wires and computers to a central nurses' station. One thing they didn't worry about in intensive care was people's privacy, Jean thought. The area was thick with the smell of alcohol and pain. The moment Jean walked in, she had to sit down. Her head throbbed. A young nurse who looked like a nun came over to check on her. Jean assured the nurse she was fine and explained how she was there to see her brother. The woman recognized Lenny's name. She didn't ask for I.D. Jean was helped into the last cubicle on the left and left alone with her boyfriend.

  He was not a pretty sight, and it broke her heart because he had been such a pretty boy. Surprisingly, he was not in a body cast but held rigidly in place by a combination of plastic rods and screws and clamps. His bed, it was clear, was capable of rotating so that his body could be turned. Jean suspected it was necessary to circulate his blood and keep him from getting bed sores. He had no marks on his face, no wounds to any part of the front of his body, although she could see the edge of the large bandage on his back. Still, he looked like death itself. His skin was pasty white, as if a vampire on a binge got hold of him. His eyes were closed; he appeared to be asleep.