Amanda's Eyes (3 page)

For once in my life, I was
speechless.  I simply shut down.  Didn’t make a peep, didn’t so much as twitch,
for I don’t know how long.

Too long, evidently.

“Maybe she passed out,” Bri whispered. 
“You know, fainted from shock.”

“Stretch?” scoffed Kev.  “No way!”

“Not a chance in He—“  Dickson
coughed.  “Not a chance.”

Mom tightened her grip on my fingers. 
“Amanda?”

When I was ten, I climbed the big
willow in our back yard.  Didn’t get high enough to break my neck when I fell,
but I landed flat on my back and got the wind knocked out of me.  The doc’s big
announcement produced that same tight, suffocating sensation.

I mean, we were talking about my
eyes
here.  As in, those soft, delicate organs hardwired directly into the brain? 
As in, sliced out and tossed who knows where?  As in, me lying there with empty
eye sockets?  Gruesome didn’t
begin
to cover it.

“Amanda Joy?”  Mom had a death grip
on my fingers now.  If I didn’t speak up soon, I would have a few more bruises to
add to what was evidently an already impressive collection.

I finally managed to draw enough
breath to ask, “How—”  Had to stop to clear my throat.  “How soon can I get the
transplant, doctor?”

Mom released a quiet sigh of relief
as her strangle-hold eased.

“Your new eyes are already under construction,
so to speak.  We’ve harvested stem cells from your bone marrow and misted them onto
the biodegradable scaffolds.  In the meantime, volume in the eye sockets will
be maintained by implants we inserted during surgery.  In three weeks, your new
eyes will be fully formed, identical to your former pair in every respect. 
That’s when we’ll do the transplant.”

“And how long before I’m able to see
again?”

“If all goes well, another three
weeks after surgery.  It will take your body that long to regenerate axons
programmed to grow into the optic nerve, fusing the new and previously existing
segments and connecting your eyes to the appropriate brain centers.”

Six weeks, total.  Not so long.  Unless
....

“Do I have to stay here the whole
time?”

“I’m afraid so,” the doctor replied,
not without sympathy.  “We don’t want to risk an infection that might delay
surgery or cause post-operative complications.  There’s no way to definitively
control that risk beyond hospital confines.  Unless your home is equipped with
decon ports, of course.”

No such luck.  Unlike facilities
where maintaining a sterile atmosphere is important—like, oh, hospitals, for
instance—your average, well-adjusted homeowner doesn’t lose much sleep over
possible contamination by friends and neighbors.  Anybody entering or leaving Mount
Zion, on the other hand, passes through tunnel-like ports where a micro-fine
mist kills viruses and harmful bacteria externally, on contact, and internally,
by inhalation.  Abandon pathogens, all ye who enter here.

My heart sank.  I might have been
able to argue my way to freedom, if she had said I had to stay because they
wanted to keep an eye on me.  Keeping eyes on people is what private nurses are
all about, right?  But a sterile environment?  Not even round, redheaded Penny,
Mom’s full-time housekeeper and part-time Captain Bligh, was that picky.

I was trapped.

My dismay must have been obvious,
because the doctor patted my arm.  “Time will pass more quickly than you think. 
You’ll probably sleep for long stretches over the next few days, and you’ll be
up and around before you know it.  Meanwhile, I’m sure you’ll have visitors who
can help you while away your waking hours.”

“Best not overdo the company,” Dad
interjected.  “You mustn’t tire yourself out.  We want you well rested for the
surgery.”

“Don’t worry, Senator,” replied the
doctor, “We’ll monitor the guest traffic.”

“Speaking of monitoring,” said Jim,
“if her editor shows his face, you’ll want to watch him like a hawk.  Don’t
leave Tug Maxwell alone with her for a minute.  CIIS is trying to keep a lid on
this for now.  As far as the public is concerned, the explosion is still under
investigation and my sister was critically injured in a hit and run halfway
across the city.  But Maxwell knows where she was and why she was there, and
he’s not above badgering her for the story.”

Doctor Ramirez evidently felt
constrained to remind my brother of the obvious.  “She doesn’t remember what happened.”

“That won’t stop the interrogation. 
He would grill his ninety-year-old mother, if it would increase the ratings.”

“Sounds like a prince among men. 
I’ll make sure Dennis sits in on his visits.”

“That ought’a do it,” Bri figured. 
“Guy looks like he eats nails frosted with ground glass for breakfast.  Where
did you find him?”

“He came to us from the special
forces.”

“Good man to have on the job,”
Dickson decided.

The conversation swirled above and
around my bed, but even though it concerned me, none of it seemed to touch
me—not even the surprising revelation about my faithful nurse, Dennis, gentle
of touch but evidently daunting to behold.  The weight of  recent revelations
was pressing down on me.  Meanwhile, memory both eluded and threatened.  When I
tried to sort it all out, my thoughts became impossibly tangled.  All at once,
I realized I was exhausted.

Mom picked up on it immediately. 
She squeezed my hand, gently this time.  “Getting tired, sweetheart?”

“Yeah, kind of.”

“Kind of, my Aunt Hattie.”  She
squeezed again, then announced in her patented don’t-give-me-any-guff voice,
“All right, you bunch of hooligans, time to go and let Amanda get some rest.”

Conversation screeched to an
immediate halt.  No surprise there.  When Ruth Gregson used that tone,
everybody
listened.  Never mind the fact that most of the world towered over her dainty
five-foot frame.  One by one, the men in my family obediently said their
good-byes.

“See you tomorrow, Sis,” said Bri,
kissing my cheek.  “Do what the doctor tells you.”

“Do I have a choice?”

“No.”  Kevin kissed my cheek, too. 
“See if you can get her number for me,” he whispered before making room for
Jim.

“I have a teleconference in the
morning,” said Jim, “but I’ll come by around one.  Guess you know you won the
pool.  Ten minutes on the nose.”

“Pay up.”

“We’ll transfer the loot into your
account as soon as we get back to the hotel.”  He kissed my bandaged forehead. 
“Love you.  Now mind Mom and get some rest.”

“Your mother and I can stay, if you like,”
Dad told me, once my brothers had taken their leave.  “Sit right here beside
you while you sleep.”

I shook my head.  “No, you go on. 
I’ll be fine.”

“I don’t like leaving you here
alone, darlin’.”

“Alone?  Dad, in case you haven’t
noticed, there are a couple thousand doctors and nurses hanging around this
place.  Go back to the hotel and catch up on your messages, Mister Speaker.”  I
gave him a tired smile.  “I wouldn’t want the country to fall apart on my
account.  Three governments on one continent didn’t work so well the last time
they tried it.”

“Bother the government,” he
grumbled.

“Come on, Hal,” Mom said, pushing
back her chair with one last squeeze of my fingers.  “Amanda is in good hands.”

“I suppose so.  No offense, doctor,”
he quickly added.  “It’s simply that—”

“No need to explain, Senator
Gregson, I understand perfectly.”

My parents both leaned down to kiss
me, then I sensed them moving away, heard Mom’s heels tapping toward the door.

I also heard Dad murmur slyly,
“Speaking of good hands, Ruth, will you give me one of your special back rubs
when we get back to the hotel?”  She laughed softly in reply.

Doctor Ramirez moved around the bed,
taking my pulse, checking various tubes and patches.  “You have an impressive
family.”

“My brother wants your number.”

“Oh?”  If she was aiming for
nonchalant, she missed by a mile.  “Which brother?”

“Kevin.  Black hair, on the longish
side.  Killer dimples.”

“Ohhh. 
That
brother.”

“Uh-huh.  Listen, is it okay if I go
to sleep now?”

“What?  Oh, yes.  Dennis will be in
to check on you every half hour or so, but he’ll try not to wake you.”

“Thanks,” I mumbled, already
drifting off.

Doc Ramirez was right.  I slept big
chunks of next few days away.  Most of my sleep was deep and dreamless.  But once
in a while, I would jerk awake in a cold sweat to the echo of some fading catastrophe,
my mind swimming with vague, blood-red mists.  Whenever that happened, I swore
I would cheerfully give my broken right arm to be able to open my eyes.  As it
was, I could only lie there, locked in darkness, probing that crimson haze.  Trying
to catch the tail of the maddeningly elusive dragon haunting my dreams.

I needed to remember.

Between naps, I learned a lot about
humility and helplessness and good stuff like that—which is another way of
saying I learned a lot about myself.  Like almost most adults, I guess, I had
taken certain basic skills for granted.  Feeding myself, getting dressed, and
going to the bathroom, for example.  Only now I couldn’t manage any of those tasks
without help.

I’ll be the first admit my
adjustment was bumpier than it should have been, but what can you do when
you’re cursed with a stubborn independent streak a mile wide?  I’ve been working
on mine since kindergarten.  Refusing to rely on anyone is probably my way of bucking
the assumption that I must have it easy, because my family is wealthy and well
connected.

Don’t get me wrong, I’m all for self-reliance. 
But
I can do it myself
wasn’t a realistic option under present
circumstances.  If I had any doubts on that score, day one and Dennis laid them
to rest.

I wasn’t pain free when I woke up
the morning after my return to the living, but I was a mile closer than I had
been.  The soreness in my arms, legs, and ribs was subsiding, and the pounding
in my head had subsided to a mild ache.  The most pressing problems I had at
the moment were acute hunger pangs and an urgent need to use the ladies’ room. 
I fumbled for, and finally found, the call button.

A minute or two later, I heard sneakers
squeak against linoleum.  “Morning, Sleeping Beauty,” Dennis greeted me
cheerfully.  “You rang?”

“Morning.  Yeah.  I, uh, need to use
the bathroom.”

“No problem.”  I smelled his woodsy
aftershave when he stopped next to the bed.  Heard a drawer open and close. 
“Okay, lift up,” he said.

“Huh?”

“Your hips.  Lift up your hips, so I
can slide the bedpan under you.”

“You’re kidding.”

“Would I kid about high-tech medical
equipment like this bedpan?”

“Just help me up, okay?  I can make
it to the bathroom.”

“Not until Ramirez says you can.”

“Come on, Dennis, do I really have
to use that thing?”

“Well, I
could
put the
catheter back in.”  I lifted my hips.  “Thought you would see it my way.  No
need to be embarrassed,” he said, sliding the bedpan into place, “I do this
kind of stuff all the time.”

“Who said I was embarrassed?” I
muttered, settling gingerly on the cool plastic.

“You’re blushing.  Look, why don’t I
give you some space?  Ring when you’re done.”

“Now, that wasn’t so bad, was it?”
Dennis asked sunnily when he answered my delayed page.  He took the bedpan
away, returning a minute later to straighten my blankets and check my vitals. 
“How do you feel this morning?”

I decided I would be a trooper if it
killed me.

“Better.  I don’t have as much pain,
and my head feels clearer.”

“That’s what I like to hear!  Did
you sleep all right?”

“Like a baby.”  I waited patiently
while he finished giving me the once-over, then asked the question now uppermost
on my mind.  “When’s breakfast?”

“Hungry?”

“Starving!  What’s on the menu?”

“Let me check.  Hmm.  I thought so. 
Piping hot, pureed rice cereal and a delicious protein shake.  Yum!”

To hell with being a trooper.

“You’re kidding,” I said.

“No way.  Those protein shakes rock.”

“Can’t I have some real food?”

“There’s no pleasing you this
morning, is there?”

Before I knew it, he was announcing
his intention to give me a sponge bath.  This time the blush went clear to my
toes.  I’m no prude, but I had never laid eyes on this person.  Granted, he was
a nurse and all, but nobody had given me a sponge bath since I was two.  From
where I lay, this situation went way beyond awkward.

I tried to reason with him.  “Trust
me, Dennis, I can do this.”

“No, you can’t.”

“I’ve been washing myself for years,
big guy.”

“Blindfolded, with an IV in one hand
and the other arm in a cast?  And how are you going to change your gown?”

He had me there.

I sighed.  “You win.  But close your
eyes, all right?”

“There’s no need to be
embarrassed.”  He was trying not to laugh, I could tell.  “I do this kind of stuff
all the time.”

Maybe half an hour after my bath I
was feeling almost human.  Amazing what getting cleaned up and donning fresh duds
could do.  Not only that, but Dennis had actually let me brush my own teeth,
tossing a much-appreciated crumb to my dwindling sense of self-sufficiency.  
By now I was so hungry even pureed rice sounded good, so when I heard the
rattle of dishes and the clatter of silverware against tray tables, I pressed
the button to raise the head of the bed a bit more.

“Good morning, Ms. Gregson.”  The
woman’s voice was soft and sweetly girlish.  “I brought your breakfast.”

“Thanks,” I said, smiling widely.  I
would have rubbed my hands together, if the one arm hadn’t been in a cast and
sling.

“Here, let me help you set up your
tray.  There you go.  The cereal is directly in front of you, spoon at nine
o’clock.  The protein shake is at eleven o’clock.”

Her detailed description only served
to drive my sightlessness home, but reminding myself this was all temporary, I
ruthlessly nipped blossoming self-pity in the bud.  Return of the trooper.

“Thanks again, Ms. ....?”

“Terrance.  Katy Terrance.  Can you
manage on your own, or would you like help?”

“I’m sure I can handle it, Katy. 
I’m so hungry, I could eat a horse!”  Or pureed rice.

“All right.  Press the call button,
if you need assistance.”

Finding the spoon was easy, but the
process got trickier from there.  I felt like a goof for resorting to the toddler
fist-grip, but I wasn’t going to bet my breakfast on my ability to hold my
spoon like an adult, because I didn’t trust the fine motor skills in my left
hand.  I inched hand and spoon carefully across the tray table until my knuckles
touched the bowl, then scooped clumsily, pleased as punch when I got the spoon
to my mouth without spilling anything.  That shining sense of accomplishment
died a quick death when I discovered there was nothing in the spoon to spill. 
Blowing out a breath for patience, I reacquired the bowl and dug deep.  Got the
spoon to my mouth again, this time with a payload—slightly sweet, mostly
tasteless gruel.  Unfortunately, the warm glow of success was somewhat dimmed
by the fact that a dollop of said gruel could be felt soaking through my gown
an inch north of my belly button.

Reluctant to admit defeat, I kept
giving it the good old college try, until I realized I was getting more food
on
me than
in
me.  I shuddered to imagine the mess I had made of the tray table. 
If I was this hopeless with cereal, how on earth would I manage more challenging
delicacies like Salisbury steak, powdered mashed potatoes, and rubber peas?

Time to face facts.  At some point
during the next six weeks I could and would learn to feed, dress, and bathe
myself.  I would probably learn to get around more or less on my own.  But I
needed help to get from here to there.  Wanting to stand on your own two feet is
admirable; cutting off your nose to spite your face is dumb.  Laying the spoon
on the tray table, I sighed, swallowed my pride, and capitulated to the
inevitable.  I pressed the call button.