Tunnel Vision

16

Emma Roderick did not personally know Stephanie Glass, the nurse’s aide she had replaced, but she had heard about the firing. Until the other day, Emma had been on a gerontology ward, where most of her patients were suffering dementia and a laundry list of physical ailments associated with advanced age. The patients here were under fifty and in various stages of rehabilitation from an assortment of neurological afflictions—strokes, aneurysms, head injuries, drug overdoses.

What she knew was that on orders of upper administration, Zack Kashian had been moved here to hide him from the press and public, because religious fanatics had crashed his room last week, claiming that God was talking through him and dispensing miracles. She had seen the cell phone video and believed none of the claims. Like her dementia patients, the poor guy mumbled nonsense syllables and people overreacted, claiming it was God and the face of Jesus on the wall and a statue of the Virgin Mary crying tears of blood, the air thick with the scent of roses.

Unfortunately, people will believe what they want to believe, Emma told herself. But the hard fact was that Zachary Kashian’s Glasgow coma rating was level two, meaning he would probably remain in a profound sleep for a long time, if not until death. Already caseworkers were talking with his family about moving him to a private rehab facility.

Because Emma was new, she worked the eleven-to-seven graveyard shift and on holidays such as today, Easter Sunday.

It was midafternoon, and she would celebrate the holiday in the evening this year. Her parents were completely understanding, especially her mother, who would appreciate not having to get up at the crack of dawn to prepare the meal—the traditional leg of lamb and homemade mint jelly. Her sister and sister-in-law would bring the baked beans, potatoes au gratin, asparagus, and carrots, plus a rhubarb-strawberry pie, her father’s favorite.

“Dad.”

For a moment, Emma thought she had uttered the syllable without awareness.

She turned her head toward the bed, and a bolt of electricity shot through her chest. Zack Kashian’s eyes were open and staring at her.

“Dad,” he whispered.

“Oh, my God!” she gasped, as if the guy had emerged from the grave. “Wait. Wait,” she said, and bolted from the room to get Heather, the duty nurse, and Seth Andrew, the resident physician.

When they returned, Zack was still staring ahead.

Heather had been on the ward for years and had seen patients wake from comas before, so she instantly took over. “Hi, Zack. My name is Heather and I’m your nurse. And this is Seth, he’s your doctor, and this is Emma. Can you hear me?”

Zack looked straight up at her but gave no response.

“Zack, I want you to listen to me, okay?” She moved from side to side to determine if he was tracking her. He was. “Good, Zack. I know this is confusing to you, but I want you to tell me your name.”

Incredibly, Zack looked directly at Heather and said in a voice rough from disuse, “Zack.”

“That’s great. Now tell me your full name, last name, too.”

“Zachary Kashian.” Then he rolled his eyes toward Emma. “Where’s my dad?”

Emma tried to repress the tremors passing through her. “Your dad?” she squealed.

“He was just here.”

“There was nobody else here,” Heather said.

“I think you were dreaming,” Dr. Andrew said.

“No. He was here.” Zack closed his eyes again and turned his head away.

“Zack!” Heather cried. “Open your eyes. Please open your eyes again.”

Zack didn’t respond.

“Zack,” said Dr. Andrew, “don’t be alarmed, but you’re in a hospital. You had an accident that left you unconscious for a while. But you’re a lot better, and the great news is that you woke up.”

Zack slit open his eyes again. And Dr. Andrew was quick to catch them. “Zack, look at me, okay? Move your feet.”

His feet, still in new sneakers, stuck out from the bottom of the bedding. Zack rocked them back and forth, knocking the shoes together.

“Good job. That’s terrific. Now I want you to tell me where you live.”

“Magog Woods.”

“Where?”

Emma knew from his chart that he lived in Boston near the Northeastern University campus.

“Magog Woods.”

“Where’s that?” Heather asked.

Zack closed his eyes again.

In a sharp voice, Heather said, “Zack, open your eyes. Come on, keep them open and talk to me. Tell me where you go to school.”

No response.

“Zack,” the doctor said, “you had an accident on your bike and were brought to the hospital. Remember that?”

“Sand.”

“Sand? What about sand? Did you skid on sand? Tell me about it. Zack, please open your eyes. You can’t go back to sleep again. Please. You’re doing great.”

“Hit my head.” He opened his eyes.

“You hit your head? Tell me what you remember, Zack. Tell me how you hit your head.”

He closed his eyes again and rolled his head away.

“Come on, Zack, open your eyes. You can’t fall asleep again. Tell me how you hit your head. Did you fall off your bike?”

But Zack kept his eyes closed, and Heather and the doctor continued coaxing him to open them again, fearing that he would slip back.

But after several seconds, his eyes opened again. He looked at his arms with the IV connections and the monitors attached to his chest and tubes running from his body to bags and feed tubes. “How long?”

“Well, it’s been a few weeks.”

Zack stared at her, his eyes blank but his mind working on what she had just said. He winced and closed his eyes again.

Heather moved closer. “Zack, keep your eyes open.”

“He’s here,” he whispered.

“What’s that? Who’s here?”

But Zack had slipped back into sleep.