EMERGENCE (16 page)

Further exploration revealed substantially absent eyebrows, lashes; head hair appreciably shorter in spots than remembered it. Had obviously been brushed out, breaking off scorched, shriveled ends—

Oh!
Memory returned in bewildering rush. Bringing with it sudden dread, rampant curiosity:
Where was Terry?
What about
kid?
What happened? More particularly,
who
happened it?

Reasonable questions, to be sure. When last participated in events, score was Candy zero, Grim Reaper nine—in ten-point match. Lethal probabilities abounded; situation, without exaggeration, dire.

Known on-site cast included Terry; concussed kid (with stiff leg, profound blood loss, stitches all over hide); and, of course, Yours Truly—plucky neighborhood zombie. Terry didn't get us out of fix; get me cleaned up, plugged in, plumbed, drained.
I
sure didn't—and kid was . . .

No!
Enough. . . .  Without facts, speculation worse than nonproductive; downright
maddening
. . . !

Had to find out for self—couldn't lie quietly in bed, waiting for someone
(whomever!)
to walk in, in own good time, and fill in blanks (selectively—telling patient "only what's good for her"). Had to know—
now
. . . !

Doggedly returned to self-examination. Found tender areas of pinkish skin on forehead, hands, ankles—another few seconds and would have been serious burns. Determined all muscles, while weak, again responded to wishes. (Almost unbearably relieved: Daddy had recited cases where muscle overuse resulted in permanent burnout.)

Concluded, at length, was sound enough to dispense with life-support toys; return to transacting personal business personally. Could eat faster, absorb protein, calories more efficiently orally than through tube (certainly enjoy it more). Further, examination demonstrated no clinical evidence of dehydration; no point, then, to retaining I.V. And could damn well go potty myself!

Okay, no reason couldn't get up—just matter of unplugging tubes. (Straightforward-sounding, simple statement of intent: easy to say.)

Effectuation, however, less so. Sensations accompanying do-it-yourself nasogastric tube removal unlikely to find place in catalog of experiences without which life is not complete. Same for catheter. Neither truly painful coming out. Actually. Exactly. Quite. But felt
horrid. . . .

I.V., on other hand, did hurt. But over quickly; slight bleeding stopped immediately with momentary pressure.

Then addressed question of standing. Knew was weak, but fairly certain could manage. With care, slowly, taking very short steps.

Question of very short steps, however, proved premature. Spent appreciable interval sitting on edge of bed, head between knees, waiting for room to stabilize. Which did, eventually.

Whereupon, gingerly stood, paused briefly to verify balance in working order; then employed selfsame care, very short steps, to navigate slowly to door.

Hall in which found self was higher-ceilinged, wider than those in houses which constituted experience during formative years. Decor, too, beyond what have come to recognize as norm.

Piano now into first measures of unfamiliar solo transcription of Wagner's
Rienzi
overture. Stood briefly, listened.

(Daddy included in shelter collection essentially entire Andre Perrault international catalog; record collection upstairs in house almost equaled. Have myself spent important fraction of short life exposed to, absorbing, enjoying classical music. Plus Daddy once took me to Horowitz concert in Chicago, where, in three too-short hours, artist demonstrated all he'd learned about playing piano over perhaps 70-odd years of training, practice, dedication. Have, despite youth, acquired discerning ear.)

This pianist good. Possibly even
that
good. But didn't recognize touch. Wondered who might be; when recording made.

Followed music down hall to balcony—from either end of which descended wide, sweeping staircase (of sort on which Cinderella lost slipper), terminating in foyer into which Daddy's whole house would fit without crowding (if tucked to side to miss chandelier).

Glided down nearer staircase, feeling like figure in dream. Music coming from partially open door on far side of foyer. Crossed room, silently pushed door open.

Terry's tee stand stood next to gleaming ebony concert grand at center of library/study whose shelves held books in numbers rivaling perhaps even Daddy's shelter library—and all hardbacks, most leather. Harebrained sibling himself
(alive!)
relaxed on one foot, raptly watching, listening as my erstwhile patient, leg bandaged but now unsplinted, played and music flowed through room, filling heart, crumbling barriers behind which had thought
those
emotions safely locked away forever.

Moved silently into room; held out arm. Twin's eyes snapped wide; almost leaped in eagerness to swarm aboard. Settled in chair just behind, to side of oblivious musician. Terry discharged immediate hysterical gladness over reunion through series of head dives, cheek rubs; then snuggled down in lap, pressed close, sighed, closed eyes. Held my baby brother tight in arms.

And, soundlessly, cried. Cried for Momma, for Daddy; for unknown, unremembered flesh-and-blood parents; for Teacher; for all my friends; for acquaintances; for whole world of strangers—cried for all
dead.

Cried for Terry, miraculously alive when should have burned to death. Cried for boy—
another person!
—incredibly still alive in spite of crash, terrible wounds, my bumbling treatment, fire—sitting now at piano, playing as composer only might have dared to dream.

Cried for me—for grief, for relief, for joy.

Cried for past. Cried for future. Cried for hope.

Cried while boy finished
Rienzi
, swept into Rachmaninoff, Chopin, Brahms, many others; all from memory, most full orchestral works somehow transcribed for piano alone; all played as if keyboard itself were come to life, complete with soul demanding outlet, expression.

Boy finished Berlioz's
Symphonie Fantastique
with marvelously cacaphonic climax whose violence quite made up for missing orchestra; tiptoed with startling gentleness into Pachelbel's
Canon in D.
And into resultant sweet tranquility he spoke; voice low, tightly controlled: "I thought you were dead."

Didn't reply—correction: Couldn't.

"Terry woke me trying to rouse you—he and I have become friends waiting for you, and I've had time to read your journal. He was down from his stand, scrambling all over you, flapping his wings, pulling at you desperately, nuzzling you, screaming at you. That's what woke me up."

Lapsed into silence for long moments, music flowing without pause. "The whole block next to us was in flames. The heat was incredible and wreckage was coming down all around us. The street was filling up with burning debris and the building on the other side was starting to go as well—it looked like something out of an old movie of London during the Blitz."

Again fell silent, moving bandaged leg restively, but music never hesitated. "I had a hell of a time getting into the driver's seat with my leg in that splint, not to mention maneuvering the I.V. hose and pouch; and I knew I'd better leave it in place—I was weak as a kitten, and the blood all over the place made it obvious why. Finally I hung the I.V. pouch on the rear-view mirror, stuck the leg out the window, and used my right leg to drive. It wasn't easy, shifting an unfamiliar transmission without using the clutch. I don't think I hurt it.

"I got us out of there and came home. I thought you were dead." Music soared gently, filling lengthening silence with beauty, while boy's breathing rate mounted visibly, settled gradually. Only quarter profile visible from own vantage, but wet cheek's glint unmistakable. Yet when resumed, voice was still almost conversational.

"You
looked
dead. You were grayish-white and you didn't appear to be breathing at all. Terry wouldn't let me touch you at first; he crouched on your body, wings half-spread, feathers fluffed to make him seem three times life-size, neck outstretched, that huge hooked bill open and threatening, and making a
noise
in his throat that . . .

Voice trailed off, but fingers never faltered.

". . . that reminded me of the sound my mother made when she found my father's body. He was the first to go in the plague." Tendons stood out in neck, but music continued unbroken.

"I thought you were dead; so I concentrated on trying to comfort Terry, soothing him, getting him to accept me, to come to me. Only after that was I able to attend to you—and notice that you were still perspiring. I had never heard of a dead person perspiring—I've never seen anyone
sweat
like that—so I brought you inside, got you cleaned up, and put you to bed.

"You were running an astonishing temperature for a live person—the books I've read suggest that people don't survive at 109 degrees, and it didn't seem very likely that you'd manage it much longer—so I packed you in ice and started an I.V. to put back some of that water sluicing off you. I wired you to our EKG—

"Oh, yes, we have a fully equipped emergency room here in the house. This was the kind of neighborhood, back when we had lots of fussy, hypochondriac old neighbors and relatives, where one couldn't afford to be without one; it would get you talked about, at the very least, and more likely disinherited. All the house staff were required to be fully conversant with the use of all the equipment, just in case.

"And while there was a stigma attached to people who possessed those skills—menial work, you know, performed by the 'servant class'—and even though I've never been sick in my life . . ."

Bingo!
Heart skipped a beat—
never been sick . . . !

"
. . .
I judged that it was the sort of thing that might well come in handy someday. So I kept my eyes open—and bribed several of our retainers, incidentally—and_ became a pretty fair EMT, if I do say so myself. But
you . . ."
Narrative faltered again; music bridged gap as breathing discipline labored to restore control.

"You were my valedictorian exercise." Declaration followed by long breath, uninterrupted music. "Keeping you alive called for everything I learned from our staff, extensive study on my own, and more luck than anyone has a right to expect—yours or mine, I'm not sure.

"You were a mess."

"Thank you." Blurted reply after boy's last four words but before content registered. Experienced momentary pang of dismay lest he take it wrong; be offended. How could he know how slowly own thoughts functioning; how far behind utterance comprehension lagged.

But mattered not. Hadn't heard. Probably not listening at all; wrapped in own thoughts. Monologue continued without pause:

"Your heart stopped twice. The first time I managed to restart you with CPR alone; the second time it took three jolts with the defibrillator paddles and an injection of adrenaline directly into your heart.
That's
something the staff didn't teach me. . . ."

Without bidding, hand drifted to chest; fingers sought, found tiny bandage just to left of sternum, between fourth, fifth ribs.

"Between the ice—courtesy of the industrial-grade icemaker in the bar in the ballroom—and the I.V., I got your temperature back down somewhere near normal and restored your fluid level. That took most of the rest of the day.

"But still you were fading almost as I watched. For some reason your tissues apparently were consuming themselves, as happens in extreme starvation, but faster—which made no sense to me as you were in good flesh and apparently healthy otherwise. So I intubated you gastrically and started you on the Isocal. And to save time, to start nourishing your cells immediately, without waiting for you to metabolize the Isocal, I briefly piggybacked a filtered solution of it into your I.V. and changed you from straight saline to Ringer's.

"Fortunately, I had to answer Nature's Call myself at about that time, and that started me thinking: All that fluid had to go somewhere. You had stopped perspiring; logic offered but a single alternative: If your sphincter held, you would rupture your bladder.

"So I catheterized you. Yes, that's something else the servants didn't teach me. But according to the book, I probably did it correctly—you didn't bleed and haven't shown signs of infection.

"And you confirmed my suspicion promptly by filling the first container in a single nonstop gush. I had to mop the floor after fumbling the container change on the fly.

"You probably don't want to hear the details of how I coped with your bowels; but I can attest that you were marvelously regular until you emptied out what you had eaten before and were down to the Isocal residue; of which—I'm glad to say—there's almost none. But that's why you're in a diaper. And I've been transferring you back and forth between two beds as cleanup demands necessitated changing them. And you."

Shook head, almost shuddered, but music never wavered. "Ever since I attained puberty and learned what it implies, my primary ambition regarding girls has revolved around getting their clothes off. Et cetera. That has not been the case with you; I'm not into necrophilia, and a catheter is not conducive to romance: There was no 'et cetera.'

"And though I have acquired an exhaustively detailed, painstakingly thorough, unflinchingly intimate familiarity with your every tangible aspect—in fact I learned more about you physically than any girl in my experience—I must admit that I would have traded gladly every success I've enjoyed in the past in that respect at any moment during these six days for the privilege of getting you dressed. You have not been a fun date."

Can't say just when lost track of soliloquy; drifted off into own blissful, music-filled reverie. Didn't have to listen; details irrelevant—had
found
somebody . . . !

Months of accumulated desperate tension drained from soul like sand spilling from ripped sack, leaving slightly limp, giddy euphoria suffusing entire being. Wouldn't have been surprised had started glowing from head to foot. Was supremely happy.