Family Tree. Сьюзен Виггс

the one person who had shared the dream with him.

       3

      Open your eyes.”

      An unfamiliar voice drifted overhead. She couldn’t tell if the spoken words were in her mind or in the room. The sound floated away into silence, punctuated by hissing and a low hum. Despite the request, she couldn’t open her eyes. The room didn’t exist. Only blackness. She was swimming in dark water, yet for some reason, she could breathe in and out as though the water nourished her lungs.

      Other sounds filled the space around her, but she couldn’t identify them—the rhythmic suck and sigh of a machine, maybe a dishwasher or a mechanical pump of some kind. A hydraulic pump?

      She smelled … something. Flowers in bloom. Maybe bug spray. No, flowers. Lilies. Stargazer lilies.

      Lilies of the field. Wasn’t that from the Sermon on the Mount? It was the name of a high school play. Yes, her friend Gordy had won the Sidney Poitier role in the production.

      “… more activity by the hour. She’s progressed to minimal consciousness. The night aide caught it. Dr. King ordered another EEG and a new series of scans.”

      A stranger’s voice. That accent. “Caught” sounded like “cot.” Losing the r in “ordered” and “another.” That was known as non-rhotic pronunciation. She remembered this from broadcast journalism training. Lose the caught-cot merger. Speak the rhotic r. Never let anyone guess where you come from.

      The mystery speaker’s accent was straight out of northern Vermont.

      “Help me with this EEG, will you?” Something jarred her head.

       Knock it off.

      Ma’am, this is a hard-hat area. Were they putting a hard hat on her? No, a hairnet. No, a swim cap.

      Swimmers, take your marks.

      She could see herself bending, coiled like a spring, toes curled over the edge of the starting block. She was one of the fastest swimmers on the high school team, the Switchback Wildcats. Senior year, she’d broken the state record for the one-hundred-meter breast. Senior year, she’d seen her life roll out like an endless, shimmering river, with everything in front of her. Senior year, she’d fallen in love for the first time.

      “ … always wondered how I’d look with short hair like this,” said one of the voices. Shawt hay-ah. The non-rhotic r.

      Beep. The starting tone buzzed through the aquatic center. Annie plunged.

      Dry. Why was her throat dry even though she wasn’t thirsty? Why couldn’t she swallow? Something stiff confined her neck. Take it off. Need to breathe.

      She floated some more. Water the same temperature as her body. She had to pee. And then she didn’t have to pee. After a while, there were no more physical sensations, only feelings pulsating through her head and neck and chest. Panic and grief. Rage. Why?

      She was known for her calm demeanor. Annie will fix it. She fixed people’s accents. Lighting problems. Set design. Stuck valves.

      Lefty loosey, righty tighty. With the maple leaf key chain in her hand, she demonstrated.

      “See? That movement—it’s not random.”

      A voice again.

      “She’s left-handed.”

      Another voice.

      “I know she’s left-handed. So am I.”

      Mom. Mom?

      “She looks the same,” said the mom voice. Yes, it was unmistakable. “I don’t see any change at all. How can you tell me she’s waking up?”

      “It’s not exactly waking up. It’s a transition into a more conscious state. The EEG shows increased activity. It’s a hopeful sign.”

      A different voice. “People don’t suddenly wake up from something like this; they come around gradually, drifting in and out. Annie. Annie, can you open your eyes?”

      No. Can’t.

      “Squeeze my finger.”

      No. Can’t.

      “Can you wiggle your toes?”

      No. Jesus.

      “It can be a lengthy process,” the voice said. “And unpredictable, but we’re optimistic. The scans show no permanent damage. Her respiration has been excellent since we removed the tracheostomy tube.”

      Trache … what? Wasn’t that like a hole in her windpipe? Gross. Was that why it hurt to swallow, to breathe?

      “I’m sorry.” The mom voice was thick with tears. “It’s just so hard to see …”

      “I understand. But this is a time to feel encouraged. She’s avoided so many of the common complications—pulmonary infection, contractures, joint changes, thrombosis … so much that could have gone wrong simply didn’t. And that’s a good thing.”

      “How do I see something good here?” Mom whispered.

      “I know it’s been difficult for you, but believe me, she’s one of the lucky ones. With this new activity, the care team thinks she’s turned the corner. We’re staying positive.”

      “All right. Then so am I.” Mom’s voice, soft with desperate hope. “But if … when she wakes up, what if she’s different? Will she remember what happened? Will she still be our Annie?”

      “It’s too soon to know if there will be deficits.”

      “What do you mean, deficits?” The voice sounded thin and strained. Panicky.

      “We have to take this process one step at a time. There’ll be lots of testing in the days and weeks to come—cognitive, physical, neurological. Psychological. The results will give us a better idea of the best way to help her.”

      “Okay,” the mom voice said, “how will we tell her everything? What if she asks for him? What do I say?”

      Him. Who was he? Someone who felt like a heavy sadness, pressing her down.

      “We’re going to take each moment as it comes. And of course, we’ll continue to monitor her constantly.”

      “Oh God. What if—”

      “Listen. And, Annie, if you can hear us, you listen, too. You’re young and strong and you survived the worst of it. We’re expecting you to make a good recovery.”

      I’m young, thought Annie. Well, duh.

      Then she wondered how old she was. Weird how she couldn’t remember … She could easily recall being just four or five, in the sugarhouse with Gran. See how it coats the spatula so perfectly? That means the sap has turned into syrup. We can use the thermometer, but we must use our eyes, too.

      Then she was ten, standing on the front porch of the farmhouse, watching her father leave in a storm of pink petals from the apple trees. The truck was crammed with moving boxes, and Dad walked with a stiff, resolute gait. Behind her, sobs drifted from the parlor, where Mom was curled up on the couch while Gran tried to soothe her.

      Annie’s world had cracked in two that day. She couldn’t put it back together because she didn’t understand how it had broken apart. There was a crack in her heart, too.

      “You should go, Caroline,” someone said. “Get some rest. This process—it can take days, maybe weeks. She’ll be monitored round the clock, and we’ll call you at the first sign of any change.”

      Hesitation. A soft sigh. “I see. So then, I’ll be back