The scent of a freshly cut lawn lingered softly in the air, floating upward with the light haze formed by the morning dew warmed by the rising sun. The sound of a riding mower gently buzzed in the distance as the grounds keeper, an elderly black man dressed in clean, well-worn coveralls, and sporting a frayed, too-large straw hat, slowly wound his way around the expertly and lovingly maintained grounds. Occasionally, he stopped the old mower to uproot an intruding weed that caught his eye.
As the man stopped momentarily to retrieve a small fallen apple tree branch, a tiny wren sang tentatively a short distance away. The grounds keeper looked up, wiping his glistening brow with a large, soft cotton handkerchief, smiled, and whistled a short melody in the bird’s direction; it was answered almost immediately by a long, undulating song. The man again replied in kind while continuing his work, and gained an even louder retort from the bird, which might be answering the call or simply trying to attract a mate.
After a short while of point and counter point between the two, the man resumed his work as several new voices joined in from various places in the grounds, their songs and calls resulting in a chorus of somewhat dissonant sounds, as other birds joined the impromptu chorus undaunted by the mower’s discordant hum.
In the center of the grounds stood a large, square building, its walls a reddish-brown brick rising to the height of three stories, with its small, dark-tinted windows and sharp edges striking an incongruous, dissonant note amidst the otherwise pastoral setting.
Inside the structure, in a small, private corner room on the uppermost floor, sat an obviously tired yet alert woman in her early thirties. Next to her, in a bed with raised, gleaming steel railings that seemed too large for its current occupant, lay a man who appeared to be perhaps two years her senior.
The walls were clean, brightly white and spotless, although the paint was somewhat faded in a few places, and hairline cracks and small areas of chipped paint were discernible upon close inspection, particularly on the ceiling. The floor, though freshly polished, showed numerous old scars over its black and white checkerboard pattern tiles in places over which heavy equipment had been moved for many years. A hint of ammonia and alcohol hung in the air, along with more diffuse and less familiar scents which, while not of themselves unpleasant, were somewhat disquieting with their lingering, unnatural presence.
The woman was lean, neither beautiful nor plain, with soft, light-brown hair which fell haphazardly about her shoulders in contrast to her spotless, if somewhat wrinkled, tan silk suit. She sat erect, despite being in obvious need of rest, both feet on the ground, palms resting on her knees. Her hazel eyes, bright and alert if somewhat reddened from lack of sleep, were fixed unblinking upon the man in bed whose eyes were open but unseeing as he lay connected to a respirator, with wires slithering outwards from his chest, arms, legs and forehead. A number of clear plastic tubes carried fluids to and from his body.
The woman looked up, startled, as the door to the room abruptly opened; she had been too deep in thought to hear a set of approaching footsteps hastily clattering over the marble floor. A man, perhaps a year or two her junior, stood in the doorway. He was dressed in faded blue jeans and sported a pale-blue, sleeveless cotton shirt. He was rather handsome, if a bit portly, with a slightly receding blondish hair and large, clear brown eyes.
“Phil,” she exclaimed upon seeing the man walk in, rising to meet him. She greeted him with a warm embrace. “I’m so very glad you’re here. I was afraid you wouldn’t get my message.”
“I came as soon as I heard. What happened, Chrissie? You said Tom was in a coma. What are they...”
“Nobody knows yet, Phil,” she interrupted, gently pulling away from her friend and slowly turning towards the man in bed. Phil followed her glance, taking in the frail figure for the first time. He winced visibly, and barely heard Christine’s voice over the raw wave of emotions that washed over him.
“At first the doctors thought it was a drug overdose. They asked me all kinds of questions about what medication he might be taking. They seemed not to believe that he didn’t even drink alcohol or smoke--that ingesting any chemicals that might affect his mental processes would be unthinkable for him. The toxicology results verified that fairly quickly, though.”
“Of course not,” Phil interjected impatiently, turning his attention back to Christine. “What else did they find?”
“Not much, really,” she continued, taking a deep breath and exhaling slowly. “All of his bodily functions are fine. Despite his emaciated appearance and obvious dehydration, they can’t find anything wrong with him. His vital signs are normal, and his mental activity as evidenced by the EEGs they’ve run seems, if anything, abnormally high.”
“Wait a minute,” Phil again interrupted, “How can he be in a coma and have high levels of brain activity? And why the hell is he in this state of near starvation? God, he looks like he hasn’t eaten in weeks.” Phil’s voice rose in keeping with his growing frustration and anger. “What kind of hick quacks are examining him? How can they . . .”
Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.
“Calm down, Phil,” Chrissie interrupted in a soothing, gently admonishing tone, fighting her own weariness while struggling to remain in control of her emotions. “He’s in good hands here, and they’ve already called in two specialists--neurosurgeons, I think--from New York City. They should be here later on tonight. Since last night, they’ve run all sorts of tests on him to try to determine what’s wrong. So far they’ve come up empty, but we’ve got to be patient; they’re doing everything they can for him with very little to go on. “
“But they must have some idea of what might be wrong with him, at least,” he pressed, still angry, but a bit calmer.
“They don’t, Phil. They simply have never seen a case like his. He will not respond to stimuli, and his body will not even carry out its autonomic functions unassisted at this point--he can’t breathe on his own without the respirator. His pupils won’t dilate, and even his kidneys have shut down, yet his brain appears to be hyperactive--and they can find no physiological reason for his condition despite the MRI and CT scans they’ve run.”
“How did they find him,” Phil asked. “And why wasn’t he dead if he needs a respirator and a dialysis machine to live?”
“I found him, Phil,” she replied, looking back at the figure in bed, then continuing with some difficulty in a strained voice. “It’s strange, really. I hadn’t seen him in years, not since . . .”
“I know, Chrissie,” Phil interrupted, the harshness and anger gone as quickly as they had arisen, displaced by a growing tenderness. He gently placed his hands on the woman’s shoulders, and helped her sit down on a chair by Tom’s bed, pulling a chair for himself from several feet away while continuing to speak in a softer tone. “Next to you, I’m the closest friend Tom had, and I hadn’t seen him in at least five years. He was too busy with his work to socialize. Nothing personal, of course--he just had no time for friendship or other distractions,” he trailed off, a touch of bitterness returning to his voice. Then, softly brushing a tuft of hair from Christine’s eyes, he added, “I’m just surprised you stuck around so long.”
Chrissie’s eyes narrowed for an instant, but she held Phil’s gaze and quickly replied in even, restrained tones, “He was the gentlest, kindest friend that you or I have ever had. There was nothing in this world he would not do for us, or for any of his many friends. Have you forgotten the time of your motorcycle accident, how he stayed by your side for ten days while you were near death? They wouldn’t let your mom or dad stay, but he alternately pleaded with and threatened first the head nurse, then the doctors and finally the hospital administrator until they relented and allowed him stay. He slept by your side, strung out over two chairs until they discharged you, and watched over you every minute he could stay awake like an overzealous bodyguard. And that was by no means the first time he’d proven his love or friendship to you.”
“I know, I know” Phil replied, mollified and somewhat embarrassed. “I guess I just resent his having cast us aside. It’s not easy being told that you’re a distraction. I’m sorry, Chrissie. Please go on. How did you find him?”
“I was driving home from work when I got an urge to see him. I can’t explain it; you know I’m not impulsive. I simply knew that he needed me. It’s as if he had called out to me, drawn me to him. I had thought of him often, but had never felt that way before. I was several miles from his house, down by I88, but I got there very quickly. When I arrived, he wouldn’t answer the door. I knew he had to be in; you know he was a virtual shut-in—he even had his groceries delivered and his dirty laundry picked up by a service. But more importantly, I felt that he was there. When he did not answer the doorbell, I did not ring again. I found his spare key in its usual hidey-hole by the front door and let myself in. I called out to him again, but there was no answer. I could see his study light was on and made my way there quickly. He was slumped over his desk, his face on an open book. I touched him; he was warm, but I could not see him breathe, and could not feel his pulse. I dragged him to the floor, laid him on his back and began administering CPR. I couldn’t yell for help, since his nearest neighbor lives almost a quarter mile away, but I managed to call for help on my cell phone and continued CPR until an ambulance arrived about 25 minutes later. I rode here with him and called you, leaving you voicemail messages at home, work, and on your cell.”
“Did you see anything while you were there that might explain his condition?”
“No, but I didn’t have much of a chance to look around under the circumstances. But that’s an idea, though. Maybe one of us should go back; we might come up with something that could be of help to his doctors.”
“I’ll go and bring back anything that might offer a clue on his condition.”
With that he rose and waited for his friend to fish out Tom’s key from her purse. After taking the key, he gently half stroked, half petted the back of her head, trying to reassure her that all would be well. He then turned to Tom, grabbed the railing of the bed, and tried to mouth something, but no words would come. The cold, gleaming steel against his sweaty palms sent a shiver through him. Fighting back his emotions again, he turned towards the door and rushed out.
As he exited the hospital, the scent of cut grass and flowers flowed through him, as did the warmth of the sun on his face, letting him realize for the first time that he had been very cold inside. The gentle breeze, the sounds of birds, the puffs of white clouds lazily floating high in the sky, the sculptured hedges and carefully tended flower beds with their symphony of color and delightful perfume all helped to soothe his frayed nerves and lift his spirits.
He took a moment to take it all in and, for an instant, was transported back to his college days. He could almost hear Professor Greenberg reading from Blake’s Songs of Innocence. At his back he knew were the Songs of Experience--the decay, death, and disappointment of real life, of unfulfilled dreams that are the inevitable legacy of childhood’s end. But if he did not turn around, he could almost deny the unkinder side of nature he was leaving behind, and dwell, if only for a moment, in the calming warmth of his surroundings which evoked a happier, more innocent time. The verdant boughs of heartwarming memories had long ago turned to brown, but he was both surprised and pleased to learn that they were not beyond sprouting tender shoots if he cared to turn his attention there—if he was willing to look beyond the pain and disappointment of the real and dwell on a comparatively idyllic past.