In my dad’s defense, I have to say that his condition was my fault.
It was only a short time before the paramedics showed up, but it was plenty of time for me to think about my growing hunger. This always happened when Spring supercharged my body’s healing with power from the Caduceus.
I knew they wouldn’t let me up, so I asked my mom. “Mom?”
“Yes, sweetie?”
“I’m starving. Can you make me a fried bologna sandwich?”
It seemed like a good idea to me, but she obviously wasn’t expecting it. Her surprise was so comical that it almost started me giggling again.
A spear of pain stabbed deep into my chest and all desire to laugh went away. I gasped.
Now stay still!
Spring’s satisfaction with my immediate attention came through loud and clear.
When the paramedics showed up, they made approving noises over my father’s field dressing, and then they moved me carefully to the stretcher and took me down to the waiting ambulance. All the while, I kept up a steady stream of happy chatter which I don’t remember. They were pretty bemused by my good mood, but I had the time of my life looking at all the cool toys they had in the back.
By the time they brought me into the emergency room, the euphoria was wearing off, and I was starting to feel sorry for myself. Everything had been looking so good. How could it have gone south so bad? First there were two murders and then mysterious figures spirited Colette away in the night—and I’d only got to kiss her that one time!
I missed her. Her kinky brown hair, dimples and ready smile. Her beautiful violet aura...
And, she had just stabbed me…
That bitch!
snarled Spring from where she sat somewhere inside me auditing my thoughts.
She’s not a spy. She’s an assassin!
I seriously doubt it
,
Spring...
Oh yeah? You still think she didn’t kill Fergus
McCormick
?
Well...
Remember how we found her?
Of course I do!
She had been alone in the room with the gun that had killed him—her gun. Which probably meant that she was the one who had killed Pietro, too. After all, she did admit to me that she had a history with both of them.
I wondered if it also meant she didn’t actually like me.
Gee Finn, ya think?
Damn it
,
Spring, I really liked her!
I’d say your taste in women is pretty pathetic,
she retorted.
Oh yeah? Well I really liked you
,
too.
Beginner’s luck.
Damn it!
Sitting in the ER waiting for the doc, I thought about the terrible tear Colette’s betrayal made in my heart, and I had a revelation. I realized that she’d become a key defense against the nastiness that I dealt with every day now. She’d become a symbol of life, and a refutation of the monsters I faced at Shady Oaks. This revelation took me deeper than I’d ever gone analyzing my attraction to her.
That’s deep
,
Finn,
teased Spring.
You going to become a philosophy major now?
Ha ha. You’re pretty funny for a tree.
I lost some time while being transferred and checked out by the emergency room docs. Between my blood loss, endorphin hang-over, and distress over Colette, I don’t remember much till they left me in a little room defined by hanging white curtains. I could hear the hustle and bustle in the intensive care ward around me punctuated by moans of pain from some other suffering souls. Who’d have thought Newark, Ohio, would generate so much hospital activity at night? And really, who cared? My life sucked.
Being stabbed makes me introspective. Where did I go wrong? How did I misjudge Colette so badly?
Hormone crazed male brain?
suggested Spring.
Letting your little soldier lead the charge? General cluelessness?
Gee thanks
,
Spring, incredibly helpful.
Its’ a gift.
Things with Colette had been weird, but no weirder than my life that spring and summer. I mean, I was working with mentally disturbed patients, literally casting out evil spirits from the abyss. Kind of hard to top that for strange and disturbing.
Maybe she’s like Erik, she thinks you’re some demon-worshiping, baby-eater who needs killin’.
Erik was the short, over-muscled, skinhead who’d nearly beaten me to death right before finals this year. He’d shot me, too, but that’s a long story, and he’s in prison now.
Maybe,
suggested my dryad,
the crazed fairies and the carnivorous plants threw her over the edge?
I considered it.
No, she seemed more enthralled and amused by that than anything else
. In fact, I’d found her easy acceptance, child-like wonder, and glee over the blood-thirsty little suckers endearing—even if I didn’t share the sentiment.
Well, she obviously came for the Caduceus.
I replayed our encounter in my brain. She did try and take it from me.
Spring, it makes no sense! Why would she do it?
It’s obvious! You told her everything about the Caduceus, and her treacherous little French heart decided she had to have it. You got in her way. Case closed. So, instead of worrying about why, lets worry about what. Like, what are going to do about her?
I thought of all the time I’d spent with Colette. Her faith and morality. The way she looked at me. The way we laughed together. The attraction between us.
No Spring, I’m certain I couldn’t be that wrong about her. I know she is not a cold-blooded killer. She couldn’t be. I know her at least that well.
You only thought you did. Finn. The only other person you will ever really know is me
.
It was depressingly true. We’re all isolated on our own little island. The only thing we could do was wave to each other across the ocean which separated us.
Wow Finn, that’s deep
,
too! Forget philosophy, you should write Hallmark cards.
Spring’s wry amusement floating through my brain was infectious, but I didn’t want to be amused. I stuck to my sulk.
Oh, go away.
Good idea. You are on your own
,
Mr. Worry McWorrier. We are running on empty. Get them to bring you some food and water. I’m going to take a nap while you indulge in your male angst. She broke your heart, get over it. When we get out of here, we’ll find you a real woman, get you laid, reassert your manhood, and you can get started making babies.
I barely registered her last few comments. I was stuck on the broken heart bit. Colette had missed my heart with her dagger, but she’d crushed it with her betrayal.
Why would she do it? As Spring’s presence faded away, I thought about how terribly isolated we all were. Most of the time, I took great comfort that people couldn’t read my mind. How many times have I wished someone maimed or dead, or worse, masturbated while thinking about some girl I knew? I’d die of embarrassment if I saw her after that and knew she knew what I was thinking.
I’m pretty sure that if people knew the full me, they’d despise me, ridicule me, and probably lock me up. Being a lone island worked for me—except for Spring. I treasured her company. I think she kept me sane.
I couldn’t read Colette’s mind, but there must have been something I missed. I ran through everything that had happened between Colette and me, searching for what might have lead her to do something like this.
The duty nurse interrupted my thoughts as she stepped through the curtain to check my vitals. She did the paperwork thing, promised a speedy doctor, and bustled away.
Sitting in the emergency room, listening to the cries of the other sick and injured around me seemed oddly apropos to my mood. As I lay on the bed trying to catch my breath, I realized I only had myself to blame. If I hadn’t told Colette nearly everything, things might have turned out differently.
My parents had arrived while I was brooding. I looked over to my mom sitting next to my dad. She looked terrible, which of course, made me feel guilty. I looked for something else to occupy my mind. I figured I’d text everyone about what was happening to me. Maybe they would have some ideas about what to do. My friend Jen and I had been keeping in touch since she moved away and, along with all my friends here, kept texting me with new ideas on uses for my new “superpowers.”
“Hey, Mom? Did you happen to bring my iPhone?”
“No, sweetie.”
“Aw, poop.”
“Sorry. It just didn’t occur to me to grab your phone when the doctors put your bloody body in the ambulance and drove away.”
I gaped at her in surprise and started to laugh. That didn’t end well.
The doctor came in a few minutes after I had stopped coughing, and the pain had subsided again. He was frowning at the clipboard he was carrying in his hand.
My mom asked him, “What’s wrong, Dr. Scott? Did you find out why he can’t catch his breath?”
The doctor played with his neatly trimmed, salt and pepper beard, and looked at the clipboard. He seemed far away when he answered my mom. “Well, Mrs. Morgenstern, I can see here what’s happening, but I couldn’t tell you how it got that way. I need to check Finn again.”
He looked at me critically, pulled the sheet down, and then opened up the all too familiar flowered nightie to expose my bare chest. There were random bits of duct tape gunk still stuck in an outline of the field dressing my dad had put on.
He examined the pink scar that had been left by the knife, then pulled out his stethoscope and used the ice-cold metal thing to listen to various areas around my chest.
“Can you sit up for me for a minute, Finn?”
“Sure.” I did as he asked and found that, though it wasn’t a great strain, it left me feeling breathless and a little nauseous. He repeated the listening shtick both front and back and then helped me back down and wrapped me back up.
He frowned down at me.
“What is it, doctor?” asked my dad.
Dr. Scott shook his head and addressed his answer to me. “Young man, you come in here with the damnedest conditions. I’d never come across anything as baffling as your three day coma, and I figured I’d seen it all when you walked out of here, happy as you please, a day after you woke up. Well, you’ve gone and done it to me again.”
“What?”
“If your story is to be believed, you seem to have suffered a pneumothorax after receiving a stab wound to the chest an hour ago. Subsequently the stab wound completely healed over, leaving the pneumothorax behind.”
He searched my face for understanding, and when he didn’t find it, he added, “Son, your father’s dressing was a good try, but to properly dress a pneumothorax, you need to leave one of the sides open to allow the fluid to escape. This gives your lung room to re-inflate. In normal people, that doesn’t create the problem we have here—ever. But, your right lung remains collapsed inside your chest, and because of the fluid buildup pressing on the outside of your lung, it cannot re-inflate.”
My dad jumped in. “So, what can we do?”
“The only thing I can think of is to open up another hole in his chest, suture up the puncture in his lung, and suck out the liquid inside to give his lung the space it needs.”
Way to go
,
Spring.
Her indignation swept through me.
Hey! I’m not a doctor; I’ve just seen them played on TV. Next time, fix it yourself!
I’m sorry
,
Spring. I know it’s not your fault. Thank you for healing me.
She could feel my sincerity and wordlessly accepted my apology.
“So you’re saying, you want to cut him open, explore inside a bit, re-inflate his lung, and then stitch him back up?” asked my dad.
“Essentially, yes. We’ll put him under with a general anesthesia, so he won’t feel any discomfort. When he wakes up, he’ll be able to breathe again.”
My blood froze at the thought of being put under general anesthesia. I had no idea if it would affect Spring or not, and if at least one of us wasn’t around to make sure Bertha’s cage remained intact... it could be very bad. I didn’t know what would happen, but if the shadow escaped, and jumped into the doctor, who was busy carving a small hole in my chest, it would quickly become a very big hole. No way. Wasn’t going to happen.
“Uh, Doc. You can’t put me under.”
“You really don’t need to worry about it, Finn. The risk is minimal, and it will be quick.”
“No, I mean I can’t let you put me under. I’m, uh, I’m sure that the knife missed my lung.”
Dr. Scott just crossed his arms and gave me the evil eye.
“Okay, so maybe it didn’t, but I have a... a medical condition and general anesthesia would probably kill me.”
Unlike Spring, my mom and dad don’t live in my head, so even though I'd eventually broken down and told them about the shadow trapped in my mind, it took them a while to put two and two together. When they did, the results were gratifying.
My mom said, “Finn is right, doctor. He has a terrible reaction to general anesthesia, and you can’t use it on him.”
“Well Mrs. Morgenstern, there are many different types of general anesthesia, it’s highly unlikely that your son would have a reaction to them all.”
“Perhaps, but we can’t take that chance. Can you do the surgery with a local?”
The doc looked confused, irritated, and troubled. “We could administer a local anesthetic, but I think the results would—”
“There will be no general anesthetic, Dr. Scott,” growled my dad. The doctor swallowed nervously, took the hint, and went off to consult with the anesthesiologist.
Over the last few months, my dad, because of his physical condition, had slimmed down tremendously, and now instead of round and friendly, he’d become angular and a little menacing. The difference was subtle, but palpable. I sometimes wondered if he were becoming someone else. He obviously noted the doctor’s reaction because he looked at me with a what-da-ya-know kind of surprise, and the dad I knew emerged in a warm and self-satisfied smile.