Blind Eye (19 page)

Waterbury Long-Term Care Facility
Connecticut

S
id Conway wasn't going to leave Amelia's room until he was certain no one would disturb his patient. He was told everyone was waiting for him at the conference room. They could wait.

Word had gone around like lightning. Amelia was awake. Six years in a minimally conscious state and now she was awake. Right in the middle of his study. He'd already sent the other two neurologists to the conference room to meet with the conservator and Dr. Baer. Sid was told Mark Shaw was waiting there, too.

Amelia was awake, but she was scared. They had connected monitors to keep track of her vitals. Anytime someone else poked their head into the room, Sid saw her heartbeat accelerate. And there were plenty of people who were doing that. Nurses. Aides. Family members of other patients who claimed they had walked into the wrong room.

This was where science and faith fought to explain and take the credit, depending on a person's beliefs. He'd already overheard some of the nurses in the hall say that this was a miracle. Sid had a scientific expla
nation for what had happened. He wasn't going to debate anyone, though. Healing was the ultimate goal. How someone believed they got there was not the point.

“Please tell me this is real.”

Sid was glad to see Jennifer as she sailed into the room. Before he could say anything, the nurse moved to the side of the bed and took Amelia's hand.

“She looks the same to me.”

He noticed that some of the staff were already gathered in the doorway. He walked to the door and closed it.

“Talk to her. Ask a question,” he encouraged, moving to the other side of the bed.

Amelia's dark gaze moved from Sid to the nurse. She looked tired. There were shadowy circles under her eyes. Amelia hadn't gone back to sleep since she'd opened her eyes early this afternoon. Sid refused to sedate her, even if it might be for her own good. He wanted to give her body a chance to start taking charge.

“Honey. I'm Jennifer. You and I have known each other for a long time. Do you remember me?”

Sid checked Amelia's vitals. She wasn't stressed by having Jennifer here.

“She can't speak yet. But she'll give you a sign.”

There was the slow blink of her eyes. Jennifer's cheeks were wet with tears.

Sid always kept a tight lid on his emotions, but he found his own throat tightening up. From what Dr. Baer had told him, Jennifer had been fighting for improving Amelia's care for a long time. For that reason alone, he was relieved that the young patient gave the indication that she was familiar with the nurse.

A knock on the door. Another one of the nurses poked her head in.

“They're waiting for you, Dr. Conway,” she reminded him.

“Will you guard her?” he asked Jennifer.

“With my life.”

He had no doubt that she meant it. “I'll be in the conference room.”

“There are no plans to move her, are there?” she asked anxiously.

“We don't know yet. I can only make a recommendation. Dr. Baer and Attorney Viera will make the decision.”

“And your recommendation?”

Sid shrugged and looked away. “She should be moved to a rehabilitation center. Six years is a long time. She needs to learn to talk and eat and get intensive physical and speech therapy. It's going to take a lot of work for her to get over years of immobility and tendon contracture. You know that type of rehab care doesn't travel. We have to go to them.”

Sid looked back at her and Jennifer nodded.

“What do you think will be the extent of her recovery?”

“It's too early to tell. But she's already beaten all of the odds. There's no paralysis that was ever identified. So I think she has a shot of going pretty far physically. I don't know about speech or auditory processing.”

“Is there a possibility of relapse?”

That was always a possibility. There were many cases of MCS or coma patients waking up only to go back to sleep, minutes or even days later. “We'll think of the positives. We're planning a recovery.”

Jennifer nodded, obviously agreeing. “Can I raise her bed?”

“Try it. But go easy. She has to learn to do everything again.”

“Baby steps.” Jennifer smiled and turned her attention back to Amelia.

Sid picked up his notes and headed for the door. Before leaving, he glanced back at Amelia. She was watching him.

“I'll be back,” he said.

“I won't leave her,” Jennifer assured him.

There was a buzz in the hallway as Sid passed through. People were looking at him, nodding to him. He felt extremely self-conscious. He wished he could stop and explain that Amelia had done this. It was not his work or that of his group.

As he entered the conference room, an immediate hush fell over everyone. Sid closed the door behind him, and when he turned toward the table, Ahmad Baer gave him a half salute.

He figured this was as good a time as any to explain. “Listen, I hope you all know this wasn't me or my partners here. We can't take credit for what's happening to Amelia.”

He took a seat at the table. He didn't want the families of MCS patients out there demanding he throw some electrodes on their loved ones' heads, thinking their sons or daughters or parents would miraculously wake up.

“What do you think caused the change?” Dr. Baer asked.

He pushed a couple of articles he'd printed this afternoon across the table. “There have been a few published cases…a thirty-nine-year-old male named Wallis in Arkansas. At age nineteen, he was in a bad car accident. Severe head trauma. After twenty years in a nursing home in a minimally conscious state, he wakes up and asks the nurse who the other woman in his room is. The nurse tells him it's his mother.”

He looked around the room. Terry Wallis's story had been front-page news back in 2003. A lot of doctors were divided on that case. Some wanted to use it as a foundation of hope for other cases and learn from it. Others considered it an anomaly.

“Some researchers hypothesize that Wallis's recovery was caused by slow regeneration of essential neuron networks over time. It's early to tell, but it's possible the same thing could have happened with Amelia.”

Baer glanced down at the papers for a couple of moments and shook his head. Sid decided he must fall into the second group of doctors.

“Could it be the magnetic field from your devices might have produced a kind of DBS with this patient?” Baer finally asked.

Juan Viera sat back and Sid glanced at him and Mark Shaw. They both looked confused.

“Dr. Baer is referring to an FDA-approved procedure called deep brain stimulation, DBS, that has produced similar results in cases involving MCS patients,” Desmond explained. “But nothing we've done in this case has any similarity to that procedure.”

“Wait a moment,” Viera said. “What does deep brain stimulation involve and why wasn't it done on Amelia before?”

“DBS is a surgical procedure where electrodes are implanted in the brain to deliver electrical impulses,” Sid told them. “The ten-hour surgery has only been found effective for patients with Parkinson's disease, and it's still considered something new. There are a number of studies being conducted using MCS patients. Nothing conclusive.”

“I see,” the attorney said.

“And the magnetic field our device radiates,” Sid
continued, addressing Dr. Baer's suggestion, “is nothing more than a person experiences using a cell phone or a hair dryer.”

“How communicative is she now?” Mark Shaw asked. Sid realized it was the first time he'd spoken.

Ahmad Baer had examined Amelia as soon as he'd arrived at the facility tonight. Sid looked at him to see if he wanted to answer the question. He nodded and tapped the table twice with his pencil before speaking.

“I ran a classic battery of tests. She used blinking to respond to questions. She isn't using her vocal cords. At this point we don't know if it's by choice or not. My belief is that she is cognizant of her surroundings. She is capable of exercising her short-term memory.
Some
language use may return with speech and physical therapy.”

“So what's the next step?” the conservator asked.

Sid spoke up immediately. He wanted the right decisions made for Amelia before her mother arrived from Montana and muddied the waters.

“My recommendation is to move her to Gaylord Hospital in Wallingford. They have one of the top ten brain-injury rehabilitation centers in the country.”

Viera looked at Baer, who nodded in agreement.

“The only question is if Medicaid will cover it.”

“It will,” Viera told them. “I'll check on the exact number of weeks that the benefits will cover and get the court to order an extension, if necessary. To start, though, so long as the primary physician recommends it, there shouldn't be a problem.”

“I can make the referral,” Ahmad said, looking at Sid. “I believe it's essential that you continue your study with her, even after she's been moved to Gaylord. We don't have all the answers yet as to why she came around at this moment.”

Nothing could make Sid happier.

“Can we also keep this off the front pages of newspapers?” he asked. “Any kind of traffic would only be stressful for her. And my group is certainly not anywhere close to making any public statements.”

Viera nodded. “I was already planning to speak to the head of the facility here to instruct the staff. We have medical confidentiality issues in play that need to be observed.”

“I will speak to staff myself,” Dr. Baer told him.

Viera turned to Mark. “I spoke to Amelia's mother after you talked to her this afternoon. Ms. Brown told me that she and her father are making arrangements to travel East. Now, as far as any publicity after she arrives, that will be largely out of my hands. The first time I spoke to her, she mentioned she was scheduled to be interviewed on television about Marion.”

A momentary silence fell over the room. It was obvious everyone had their doubts about the impending visit.

Mark Shaw broke the silence. “Can I see Amelia and ask her some questions about Marion?”

Sid frowned. He knew what Mark wanted, but it was so much easier to concentrate on one thing—Amelia's recovery.

“I haven't been able to get any cooperation from the people fighting the blaze on the rig. Everyone is convinced that there are no survivors,” Mark told them. “They're treating it as an environmental issue now, rather than as a rescue.”

He pushed a thick folder across the table toward the conservator. Everyone in the room knew it was the printouts from Sid's readings. Viera had already been told how unlikely it was that it could have come from Amelia's memory.

“I believe everything that's happened is related,” Mark continued. “Maybe even Amelia becoming conscious now is connected. Maybe she's trying to help her sister.”

A week ago, in a similar situation, Sid would have said the idea was ridiculous. In the middle of the table, however, lay copies of the manuals that they'd produced from Amelia's brain readings. He'd be a fool to say there could be no relation.

“We have quantifiable results with one sister. She's awake,” Viera said. “Then, we have a…a notion regarding the other. I've tried, but at this point no one outside this room is taking what's happening here seriously. And there's no reason they should. We have to let the people in charge of that operation make their own decisions…just as we would not allow some firefighter in the Gulf of Mexico to tell us how to care for Amelia. We can't tell them how to do their jobs.”

“I know that. But that gives us even
more
reason to talk to Amelia,” Mark persisted. “Before, we were relying on computers and formulas and electronics and brain science I couldn't begin to understand. Now we can ask her directly.”

Sid understood the other man's struggle. If there was even the slightest possibility that Marion was still alive, Mark Shaw wasn't about to give up.

“Maybe you and I could pursue that possibility after this meeting,” he said.

Attorney Viera and Dr. Baer looked at him for a long moment, and then the two men shrugged. It was clear they didn't want to be involved with this part of the situation.

Nuclear Fusion Test Facility

T
he door to the test lab was sealed and no amount of force that Marion could possibly exert was going to budge it.

Dr. Lee's words kept repeating over and over in her head.

Somehow, she had to get power restored to the facility. The clock was ticking. Her course of action was simple and clear. She had to get out and get help.

Marion had two choices. She could either force her way into the elevator shaft and try to somehow climb the two thousand feet to the surface…and hope the killers were not waiting at the top. Or, she could find a way to gain access through the elevator shaft to the Test Drift area and hope that the elevator at the opposite end of the facility was working.

She didn't want to dwell on the magnitude of the disaster that was brewing here. But not even taking into account the loss of human life—hers being the first—random numbers she'd studied in graduate school continued to bounce in her head. Numbers like peak radioactivity for plutonium 239…240,000 years to subside. The entire Southwestern U.S. and large sections
of Mexico could easily be uninhabitable for that many years.

She wondered if there was any chance that the planet would still be around for that long.

Marion forced herself to focus on the books open in front of her. She couldn't allow herself to become overwhelmed.

Based on the schematic of the WIPP that she'd seen, the disposal area operated under a separate power source and transportation system. The chance existed that the people who'd killed her coworkers and shut down the generators could have done the same thing at the neighboring facility. But Marion figured that was unlikely.

Test Drift documentation indicated that it was a one-hundred-percent robotic facility, used as one of the military's disposal sites. The killers wouldn't bring attention to themselves by shutting down someone else's operation.

The added incentive that she might see sunshine and breathe the fresh air once more before she died gave her the final push.

Marion looked at the diagrams one more time. The only way she could get to the Test Drift was through the elevator doors. She had to somehow pry them open and climb inside the first shaft. Once she was in the elevator shaft, she would have to pry open the next set of doors…if the doors still existed. In any event, she needed to get into the elevator shaft before she could decide what was the best exit route.

A burst of energy ran through her at the thought of getting out. The piercing headache had turned into a dull throbbing pain that she was able to ignore. She gathered bottles of water and power bars and stuffed them into a shoulder bag she'd found in the room.

From the maintenance room she took a crowbar, and
two screwdrivers and a hammer that she packed into the shoulder bag. In a box containing an assortment of batteries, she found a small timer, which she set to her calculations. It tortured her to see the seconds clicking silently along, but she needed it. She stuffed the timer deep in her front pocket.

She gathered everything that she thought she might need, including extra batteries for her flashlights. Her eyes scanned the closet for anything else. On the floor, a large box with a radiation sticker caught her attention, and she pulled it out. Inside, she found protective rubber clothing, from booties to lightweight overalls to gloves to bonnets. There were no particle masks for airborne contaminants, however.

She knew that radioactive poison could enter the body by way of inhalation, ingestion, absorption or through a break in the skin. She seemed to have some serious gashes, especially on one side of her head. She could do no more about that than she could do about airborne particles, though. About the latter, she'd just have to stop breathing.

“Ready to go,” she said aloud, double-checking what she had.

Then she remembered the bodies of her coworkers that she would have to face on her way to the elevator.

It was probably the least important thing she had to do, but somehow it mattered to her. Marion grabbed a roll of clear plastic bags off the shelves. She told herself she wouldn't go out of her way to cover everyone, but she would cover the colleagues that she had to pass by.

Marion put the bags with the rest of the things she needed. There was too much to carry in the shoulder bag. She remembered the duffel bag that she had in her room.

Marion peeled one of the plastic bags from the roll and headed that way.

There was a strong smell of rotting meat before she even reached the doorway. She covered her nose and mouth and shone the light inside the room.

She shouldn't have looked but her gaze was drawn uncontrollably to the body of Eileen Arrington. Her face and neck were a greenish-blue color. Her features were already unrecognizable

Marion shook the plastic sheet open. Trying to hold her breath, she rushed in and practically threw the bag at the corpse. The plastic only covered the head and upper body of the scientist.

She quickly reached inside the closet and found her duffel bag. On the way out of the room, the light in her hand flashed on a framed picture of her and Amelia. They were eleven in the photo. She remembered the day so clearly. Their mother had taken the picture at a picnic the warden threw each summer for the families of the prison employees. She always kept the picture at her bedside wherever she went.

Marion grabbed it and darted out. In the hallway, she felt her head suddenly about to explode. Pain so intense hit her so hard that she could not keep her eyes open or even turn her head. She thought she was about to pass out and grabbed for a wall. Quick flashes of light blinded her in the darkness.

Her brain was playing games with her. Suddenly, she was in a hospital room somewhere, an array of equipment spread out around her. A dark-haired woman was watching her. She could smell the scent of the woman's shampoo. There were others she couldn't see. Only voices. Then she was back in the research facility. She stumbled toward the direction of the maintenance closet. After only a few steps, though, her legs stopped moving entirely, as if every muscle and tendon had become rigid.

Marion banged hard against the wall and slid to the floor. She could hear voices again. Someone was asking her questions. One voice was familiar. A man's voice. She looked down at the picture frame she was holding.

“Amelia,” she said aloud. “Tell them where I am, Amelia.”

But where was she? Marion's mind was caught between two worlds. She'd become a soul divided.

There was that familiar voice again. Marion closed her eyes and she could see him.
Mark
.

“WIPP…” she said aloud. “Waste Isolation Pilot Plan. Tell him, Amelia. Tell him where I am.”

Marion opened her eyes. She was back in the dark hallway. The flashlight lay on the floor by her knees, its beam reflecting on the tools and shoulder bag she'd left by the maintenance-room door.

Unsure if she even could, she pushed herself to her feet. Her legs were once again working. There was a sense of fear lying like acid in the pit of her stomach. This was much different than how she'd felt an hour before.

She knew what it was. It had to do with Amelia. She only got this sensation when she knew her sister was in trouble.

Marion moved quickly. She had to get out of here.