T.J. Klune - Bear, Otter, and the Kid 2 - Who We Are (43 page)

I was led down a hallway and through a pair of double doors with a red line across the floor, a warning not to cross. I hesitated, the nurse holding the door open for me, and then crossed anyways. We walked past rooms, some doors opened with machines beeping quietly, some doors closed to hide whatever grief lay inside. I didn’t know what time it was but was sure it was very early morning. Would they allow me to come back? Was there such a thing as visitor hours when it was the man you loved who lay there, his body only doing God knows what? I wanted to ask the nurse, but I couldn’t seem to find my voice. We passed another room, and a woman was crying in a corner, a man quietly consoling her as the person in the bed in front of them did nothing. He looked up as we walked past the door, and for a moment, our eyes caught and something passed between us. An understanding, a knowledge that I couldn’t shake.

Room 403. The numbers added up to seven. That was my first thought. I don’t know why I had it. The nurse paused at the door and turned to me, and again warned me about what I would see, that he was not the Otter that I remembered. I nodded almost impatiently, and I think she saw this because she smiled quietly at me and opened the door.

The first thing I noticed was the machines. Machines that whirred. And beeped. And pumped and hissed. There seemed to be so many of them, and I laughed wildly in my head and wondered if Otter was even in there anymore. I pushed this thought away.
Of course he is,
I thought.
He’s in there. He’s in there.
I could almost believe it. How could I not?

The second thing I noticed was that he had a window in the room and that the blinds were shut. This bothered me for some reason. I don’t know why I wanted them open, but then realized it was dark and cold outside. I wanted to ask if he could be moved to a room without any windows. I couldn’t think of a way to say it without sounding crazy, so I said nothing.

It seemed every inch of exposed skin was covered in bruises, a dark tapestry of blues and blacks, greens and purples. Some were mottled, some looked like they were spread up entire swatches of skin. His face looked swollen under the bandages wrapped around the top of his head. A clear gluelike substance covered the cut on his forehead, and I wondered where the stitches went. There was a cast on his left arm. On his left leg, elevated in a harness above the bed. I saw his toes sticking out, and it was only then that I could take a breath, and I had to reach out and steady myself against the wall. My vision grayed for a moment, but I forced myself back.

Because I knew that even under the bruising and the machines and the casts, even under the bandages and the blinds that kept out the dark, this was still Otter. I could see that. Even with the colors that shouldn’t have been there on his skin, even though his face looked distended, I could still see him in there, buried but recognizable. It was that feeling, that darkly glorious feeling that broke the last hesitancy I might have had, and before I knew it, I was at his side. I raised my hands to touch him, but stopped myself. The doctor said she thought that he could hear us, that we should talk to him, to let him know that we were there. But if he had that cognizance, wouldn’t he still be able to feel pain? What if I hurt him? I couldn’t do that. I couldn’t hurt him. I loved him.

The nurse seemed to sense my turmoil and led me to the other side of his bed, his good arm bruised, but better than the other. In fact, his entire right side looked better than the left. It was like he’d been divided in half with one side almost normal, the other dipped in watercolor. The nurse indicated I could take his hand, and so I did. It was cool to the touch, that big hand so familiar in my own. I wrapped my hand around his and squeezed, momentarily distressed when it didn’t squeeze back. I don’t know why I expected it to. The nurse seemed to understand my need for privacy and walked out of the room.

I didn’t know what to say. I felt slightly foolish at the thought of speaking to him, that of course he wouldn’t be able to hear me. He was unconscious, for Christ’s sake. Maybe in a coma. I didn’t know. All I could remember was the words “brain damage” and wondered what that would mean for him, for us, if that was the case. Too many scenarios ran through my head. What if he woke up and was different? What if he was… damaged? What if, in a crazy soap opera twist, he didn’t remember me because he had amnesia, and I had to make him fall in love with me all over again? I would show him pictures, I knew, of us and his family to remind him of what he had. I would tell him constantly that I loved him and that he would come back to me and remember me and love me again. That darker part of my brain wondered what would happen if he did wake up but that the Otter I knew and loved was gone, that what if he would be a blank slate, unaware of his surroundings, disabled beyond any repair. I was astonished by my response to that dark voice, the same response I’d given to my other thoughts: I would show him pictures of us and his family to remind him of what he had. I would tell him constantly that I loved him. Every day he would know I loved him.

I brought up my free hand to wipe at my face, and the ring on my finger glinted in the low light, a flash that was brilliant and heartbreaking. I dropped my left hand on top of his. “You’ll see,” I said. “You’ll see. You and me? We aren’t done yet. Not by a long shot. I promise you that. I don’t care what it takes. I don’t care how you come back to me. But you come back, you hear me? You come back and everything will be fine. I don’t care if you can’t walk right, or if you can’t think right, or if you can never remember my name. It won’t matter to me, just as long as you come back. You’ll see. You’ll see how great it can be.”

T
HE
second day was the hardest. The second day was the hardest because nothing changed much for either of them. Otter still look beat to hell, and Mrs. Paquinn looked frail and old. It was somehow worse to sit beside Mrs. Paquinn, given how much she looked like she had shrunk in the last couple of days. Otter was still big and even though he was still silent and smattered with colors that seemed to grow darker, his size seem to negate the injuries.

It wasn’t so with Mrs. Paquinn. The vibrant little lady who’d rescued me from myself time and time again seemed to be collapsing in on herself, the skin on her arms looking dusty and paper thin, the breathing tube down her throat looking obscenely large on such a small woman. When I wasn’t with Otter, I was with her. The staff had tried to limit my time with the both of them, but it only took one look from all the members of my family (by now, Anna’s parents had arrived, not yet knowing that there was a third part to play in all of this, that their daughter was fighting her own mind and body) to show the staff that we were not to be fucked with, that not only was our strength lying silent down the hall, our heart was wasting away in front of us. The protests became weaker and weaker until they became nothing at all.

Creed arrived on the afternoon on the second day, as did Dominic. Creed came first, and I was standing near the coffee machine, debating on whether or not $1.25 was too much for the swill that came out (and this debate was the only thing that kept me from shattering, so it was one I had every hour on the hour). I heard him say my name and when I looked up, my eyes and mind played a trick on me, and for a moment, I was sure it was Otter. I was sure Otter was standing in front of me, saying my name, his arms wide open and waiting for me to run to him.

And then he was on me, and it didn’t smell like Otter. It was Creed, and he was breathing heavily into me, trying to maintain control, trying to be the strong one. But I’d already assumed that role. I’d already decided that I would be the strong one now. So I told him it was okay, that he was here now, and I felt him quake in my arms, and for the first time in my life, I held my best friend while he broke down and cried. The noise that came from him threatened to sap my strength, but I knew it would be no good for either of us, so I waited until I was sure I could maintain control before I spoke again, telling him quietly in his ear how Otter was doing, how Mrs. Paquinn was doing, the few updates that we had looked positive for Otter, less positive for Mrs. Paquinn. He nodded through his tears and listened.

I didn’t say anything to him about Anna. I didn’t even know if he knew. I didn’t think it was my place to bring it up, but it would be my place to stand beside the both of them when it came out. I was, after all, the strong one now.

I let Creed go when Alice and Jerry came up and hugged Creed, and I left the Thompsons there, telling them I needed to get some air, that I’d be right back.

Dominic showed up hours later, and as soon as he walked into the waiting room, the Kid was up and off his seat, and his little arms wrapped around Dominic’s waist, and Dominic looked surprised, if only for a moment. Then his own arms came down and wrapped themselves around the Kid, and they went to the opposite side of the room and sat down in some empty chairs. I could see Dominic whispering something into the Kid’s ear as the Kid sobbed into his shoulder and eventually, the tears subsided and the Kid calmed, and at one point, I thought I heard a short bark of watery laughter come from my little brother, and I was grateful. I was grateful for that moment.

Eventually, they walked back over to me, and I smiled up at Dominic, trying to show him that I was the strong one now, and he seemed to see right through it and grabbed me in a rough hug of my own. He whispered something to me, but I couldn’t make out what it was. I don’t know that it mattered. The intent was there, and I could understand that.

I stayed the strong one.
“Happy birthday,” I whispered to Otter later that night.
Bacon is bad! Beef is wrong!

T
HE
third day was the hardest. The third day was the hardest because they had to do emergency surgery on Mrs. Paquinn to apply the shunt in her brain, as the anticoagulants didn’t seem to be working, and she continued to have the mini-strokes that you couldn’t even tell were happening by looking at her. Aftershocks can be like that, I’m told. She was down in radiology having tests done while I sat with Otter when I heard an emergency code over the intercom, and I closed my eyes because I knew what it meant, who it was for.

The others were gone, per my insistence, letting them know I needed them to get out of the hospital for a while, that I needed them to take the Kid out to lunch or whatever, just to get his mind off what was going on. There was still an intense debate ongoing as to whether or not he’d return to school the next day (I was for it, he was against it, of course). I told him Otter and Mrs. Paquinn wouldn’t want him falling behind. He told me that it wasn’t fair in the slightest to say that because no one could know what they would say. I told him then that I was telling him he would go. He said we’d see. And then I’d dropped it, because I could see him starting to get worked up again, and I wondered if he would ever forgive me if something would happen to either of them when and if he wasn’t here. I was the strong one, now, and I leaned over and pulled him into my lap, and we sat and watched Otter do nothing but breathe with the help of the machines.

So, I said, the Kid needed a break. They all told me I did too. I shook my head, quietly saying that I was where I was needed. There looked like there would be arguments to the contrary, and there even seemed to be a discussion as to how to force me away, but it was abandoned by the flash in my eyes, the baring of my teeth. People noticed the ring on my finger as I twisted it viciously but said nothing. Nor did they say anything about the one hanging from a chain around my neck. I told them I needed to be alone with my partner, that I needed to talk to him, to please, just give me that. I was the strong one, I told them. I would be strong for them, but I needed him right then, and I needed him alone.

They left soon after.
O & B Forever.

I sat with him, holding his hand, telling him how funny he looked, how embarrassed he was going to be when he woke up and I showed him the pictures. I told him about Anna and how confused that made me feel. I wondered aloud what was going to happen to them, if they were going to be okay. Of course they would, I told him after a minute. They were family, after all. They would be taken care of, just like the rest of us. We watch our own, I said to Otter. We always have, even if we didn’t always know what it meant.

I grew angry then, even though I tried to keep it to myself. Rational thought and I were no more than passing acquaintances on that third day, and I asked Otter if he thought that it was Anna and Creed’s fault that this happened, that God thought we could only have so many people in our family and that by her getting pregnant, that he had to take some away to make room for the fucking baby. My grip on his hand tightened before I pulled away, horrified that I’d hurt him further. He didn’t say, one way or another, so I took his hand in mine again, and I leaned down and kissed the knuckles with my dry lips, and now that we were alone, now that everyone else was gone, I whispered to him that I didn’t want to be the strong one anymore, that I needed him to wake up and be strong because I was so tired of trying to carry it all on my own. I told him that I’d do anything if he just opened his eyes and looked at me and the gold-green would be aware and he would smile and it would be that crooked grin and he would tell me how good I’ve been, how so very strong I was, but it’s okay because he’s here now. He’s here to help me. I waited. And waited. Nothing happened.

Then the emergency code was announced over the intercom, and the woman said “Radiology,” and I closed my eyes and lay my forehead against his hand. It could be anyone, I told myself. It could be anyone.