Never Hug a Mugger on Quadra Island (10 page)

“I think he does.” Jason's voice barely above a whisper.

“What's actually happened to his brain?” Noel asked.

“Well, there's bilateral damage done to the reticular formation of his midbrain, but in terms of treatment that gives us as much information as saying you need flour to make bread.”

“What does it say on his chart, about the kind of treatment he first got?”

Dr. Pierce squinted at Noel. “Why do you ask that?”

“I'm wondering if he was conscious when he was found. Did he say anything? Was he tested on the AVPU scale?”

Kyra stared at Noel.

Pierce smiled. “I'll get his chart.” He consulted his computer.

“Noel, what are you talking about?”

“It's a scale I read about—goes from being Alert to receiving Vocal stimuli to feeling Pain stimuli to being Unconscious.”

Pierce read a file on his screen. “No, when he was first received in Victoria they did an RLAS test on him.”

Noel nodded. “That's way more complex, isn't it.”

“Yes,” said Pierce. “It has eight separate categories, or levels. It's used early on and it can measure shifts between levels. Sometimes they change back and forth between higher and lower. Let me see—” he scrolled down and shook his head. “With Derek, the coma deepened until it finally leveled out one level before the lowest. And no—” he glanced at Noel, “no mention of anything he might have said. Sorry.”

“And his prognosis now?”

“Comas on the average—and I'm speaking statistically here—last from between a couple of weeks to just over a month, and I—”

“So he could be coming out of it soon.” Jason spoke quietly.

“Some comas last much longer, I have to warn you. Some patients progress, if that's the right word, to a vegetative state. Others do die while in a coma.”

“And someone in a coma as deep as Derek's?” Kyra's voice was hushed.

“Depth of the coma isn't always a predictor of the chance of recovery. Somebody with a low chance might still wake up.”

Jason sighed deeply. “So what can we do, Dr. Pierce?”

“We can and will take care of him as best we know how. We've got some excellent people here. You can wish or hope or pray or whatever you do best. Visit him, one or two people at a time. Patients who've come out of a coma have reported they were aware of loved ones and friends in the room and that gave them more strength to come out. Time's the only thing we have on our side right now. And Derek's natural strength.”

Noel nodded, and said, “Has deep brain stimulation been considered?”

Kyra squinted at him, but said nothing.

“It's the wrong kind of injury,” said Pierce. “No one I've consulted thinks DBS would be of any value here.”

Noel glanced at his watch. “We've taken enough of your time, Dr. Pierce. Thank you.” They shook hands with Pierce and left the building.

Back in the car Jason said, “Thanks for asking those questions. Now I know more about Derek's condition.” He smiled ruefully. “Not that it helps.”

“But Jase, Linda's a nurse. She must've asked questions like that.”

“I think she has. I just haven't asked what she's learned.”

“Why not?”

“I think—I was afraid of what she'd tell me.” He paused. “And of watching her tell me. With Pierce, it all came out more—objectively? And it looked like he thought he was talking to a professional.”

“I guess,” said Noel as he drove into the line leading to the ferry booth. Jason passed Noel a plastic card. “What's this?”

“A fare card. They subtract money that's credited on it.”

Kyra couldn't believe that Jason hadn't talked with Linda about all this. Kyra would have wanted to know everything, the tiniest detail.

•  •  •

“Here they are,” Linda announced as the back door opened. Kyra, Noel and Jason added their shoes to the sprawling pile. Jason pulled on slippers. Noel wiggled his sock-clad toes. Kyra took in the sun slanting across the wooden cabinets, the dinner preparations, Linda bending over a pasta pot on the stove.

“I see a beer there,” Jason noted. “You two like a drink before dinner?” He looked at Kyra, Noel. “Could be gin and tonic, scotch—“

“Gin and tonic would be terrific,” Noel said.

“You got juice or a pop?” Kyra asked.

Jason got down glasses, found mixings, cut limes, clinked in ice, poured and handed. They thanked him.

“Where are the kids?” Jason asked Linda over the sound of water coming to the boil.

“Shane's in his room. Don't know about Tim and Alana.”

Jason invited them into the living room.

Another pleasant light-filled room. Kyra sank into an overstuffed sofa, thinking, I like this house. Electronic beeps and whizzes emanated from around a corner.

“Sounds like they're at the video games,” Jason explained, half apologetically.

Noel raised his glass to Jason and Kyra. “Cheers.” He sipped, and walked to the window. The woodlot trees began about sixty meters away. A hill rose beyond them, the land cleared. “Are those sheep up there?”

Jason looked out. “Alpacas. Their wool brings more than sheep's wool and they crop the grass to no-never-mind the same.” Kyra got up to see.

“Supper's ready!” Linda called. “Shane!”

“Coming,” Tim yelled, over whizzes and beeps.

“Shane. Now!”

Jason strode to the foot of the stairs. “Shane!” He gave Noel and Kyra an exasperated look. Upstairs a door opened.

Tim and Alana appeared and they all entered the kitchen. “Sit anywhere.” Linda cocked her chin at the long refectory table. Tim and Jason slid into what probably were their accustomed places. Two more placemats looked used; Noel, Kyra and Alana took places in front of crisply folded napkins. Shane arrived and sat, his face a cipher.

Linda placed a steaming bowl of penne on a trivet, reached back to the counter—

Alana stood quickly. “Let me help.” She grabbed the salad bowl and brought it to the table. Linda added bread, butter, grated parmesan.

“This looks great,” Kyra said, picking up the pasta server. “Alfredo?”

“Clam alfredo,” Tim informed her. “We collected the clams yesterday.”

Clattering of dishes and cutlery, passing of bread and salad, munching.

“What's your first competition this fall, Shane?” Alana asked.

Her tone was sprightly, as if she'd practiced the question in her head. Noel looked up. Her face was flushed.

Shane gave her a shadow of the smile his family knew from competitions. “September 24th. An Olympic qualifying event.”

“That's exciting! Where will it be?”

Kyra wished Alana would tone the worship down a bit. But maybe she had. Maybe this was mild. She hadn't leapt onto his lap. Yet.

Shane kept his smile on her a moment longer: rewarding the fan. “Germany. If I go.” He forked another mouthful of alfredo into his mouth.

Kyra saw a glance pass between his parents.

“Whaddya mean
if
?” Tim's voice squeaked and he coughed.

Stuffing in a last mouthful, Shane pushed back his chair and left the table. His footsteps banged up the stairs.

Linda called, “Shane!”

Tim said, “Woooweee!”

“Timothy. Behave.”

“It's Shane who's gotta behave,” said Tim.

Jason said to Noel, Kyra and Alana, “I apologize for him. But he'll apologize to you too.”

“Jase, no need. We were all eighteen once and—”

“Eighteen's plenty old to be civil. He goes out on the ice and he smiles at the whole world.” Jason glared. “So we know he knows how to smile.”

Tim said, “He thinks he's the great Shane. What he really is is the great Shame.” He giggled.

Alana tried not to. She covered her mouth. Tim caught her eye. She made an effort to sit straight and look serious. She rolled the two rings on her right thumb.

“Whatever else he is, Tim, he's a member of this family. And tonight it's his turn to do the dishes.” To the rest, Linda said, “Have more. There's still dessert.”

“Let him miss it. Let him be hungry.” Tim drank his water.

“This is delicious, Linda.” Kyra helped herself to more salad and bread. She passed the alfredo to Alana, who shook her head and passed it to Noel.

“Maybe I shouldn't have asked him about his next competition. I'm sorry.”

“It's not your fault,” Jason reassured her. “Shane knows better.”

The rest of the meal passed in strained small talk. Linda brought strawberries from the fridge, ice cream from the freezer. They finished. Linda stood. “Jason, please tell him he has to be down here and finish his supper.”

Alana, getting up, said, “I could do the dishes.” She reached for a dessert plate.

Linda glanced at Alana's ringed fingers. “Thank you, but this is Shane's responsibility. He'll clear, too. You three go to the den, that'd be best.”

Jason got up. “I'll get Shane.”

The three guests stood and left the table. Tim followed them.

Linda realized she felt more worry than anger. Even when he'd come home last Christmas, Shane had been easy to spend time with. Proud of his skating, of course. Though the terrible fall, that must have unnerved him. But he'd got up, and seemed okay. Still, this business of living mainly inside himself, acting as if no one else were around, this wasn't her Shane. She'd already let herself wonder, could it be some form of depression? She worked occasionally with patients diagnosed as bipolar. Shane didn't act like those people, but some symptoms were similar. Did it have anything to do with Derek's beating, that Shane wasn't around to defend him? Except Shane was so rarely at home— If she still smoked, this would be the time for a cigarette.

•  •  •

Jason climbed the stairs and knocked on Shane's door. “Shane?” No answer. He knocked harder, spoke evenly. “Shane. You coming out?” Again no response. “I'm coming in.” He turned the door handle.

Jason flicked the light switch. Shane lay on his bed, staring at the ceiling. The walls were covered with posters of skaters, Dick Button, Tim Wood, Toller Cranston, Austin Osborne, Brian Boitano, Johnny Weir; and a few women, Gretchen Merrill, Peggy Fleming, Michelle Kwan. And three smaller posters of Shane—including, Jason knew, Shane's favorite, costumed as a faun—a vest across his chest designed to look like curly hair grew on it, tight pants that gave the same effect, skates designed to look like hooves above the blades. The spectators, a year ago last spring, his first try at Juniors, had gone wild. He'd made it to the podium with, as he said it, only a bronze medal. But he'd become the darling of the crowd.

Shane hadn't seemed to have noticed his father, let alone the light coming on. “Shane.” No answer. “Shane!”

Now Shane turned slowly and looked over to Jason. “Yeah?”

“You okay?”

“Fine.”

“That was very rude.”

“What?”

“Stomping off from the table.”

Shane squinted at his father. “Sorry.”

He didn't mean he was sorry, and Jason's anger grew. “You may be the idol of millions on the ice, but here you're my son and my guests are your guests. You're coming down to apologize.” Shane stared at Jason, slowly shook his head, got up and headed for the doorway. Jason followed him downstairs. They passed the den, Noel and Kyra, Tim and Alana deep in conversation. Jason said, “Later. Into the kitchen.”

Linda sat at her desk. She glanced at Shane as he came in. “Your evening for the dishes.”

“Dishes? I haven't done dishes in a year.”

“Exactly. And do not speak to your mother like that.”

“It's okay, Jason.” Her tone mellowed. “Shane, what's wrong?”

“Why should anything be wrong?”

“Derek comatose to the world is pretty darn wrong.”

Shane sighed, hard. “Yeah. That is.”

“Is that why you've become so—so withdrawn? Worrying about Derek?”

“Yeah, maybe.”

“Look, son,” Jason said, “We all are. But we have to go on with our lives, and be part of each other's lives too.”

Shane tightened his mouth, a look of exasperation.

“So put on an apron. Dishes into the machine. And wash the pots.”

A large dramatic sigh from Shane.

Linda said, “You're worrying about more than just Derek. Something to do with your skating?”

“Why do you say that?”

“I'm asking you.”

“I've just got to keep training. That's all.”

“Austin said you looked great on the ice today.”

“I didn't feel great.”

“What didn't feel great?”

“Everything I tried. My axels, my loops, split jumps, everything.”

Linda put her hand on his arm. “Are you still upset about the fall you took?”

“No! For godsake, leave it alone.”

But he'd been upset. He'd gone about cursing himself aloud. Word about that had gotten around because Shane never cursed. “It wasn't your fault, Shane—”

“Mom, I was the only one out there, okay? Nobody tripped me. I misstepped. I blame me, okay? Nobody else.”

Jason put a hand on his shoulder. “Tell me, son. You afraid you'll fall again?”

Shane took a couple of steps backwards. “Look. My legs didn't do what I told them, what I've told them to do hundreds of times, thousands, and they always do. That one time it didn't happen. Okay? It's that simple.”

“Still, if you're worried—”

“Stop it! Just leave me alone about my skating.” He grabbed an apron. “I'll get this place cleaned up. Just leave the kitchen! Okay?” He glared at both of them.

They exchanged a glance, headed for the back door and out. On the deck Jason turned to look back. Shane, as if in slow motion, tying the apron. Linda said, “I'm worried about him. Was before he came downstairs.”