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He sighed, and it sounded so sad that she almost started to cry. “I don’t know. ”
His hand was a lifeline suddenly. How had she forgotten that, how her dad could hold her steady? He’d always been able to, even back in the old days when Marah had fought with her mom constantly.
“She’s going to wake up,” Marah said, trying to believe it. Her mom used to say, Don’t stop believing until you have to, and certainly don’t stop then. Of course, she’d died anyway. “Do we just wait?”
Dad nodded. “I’m going to take the boys and your grandpa out for lunch. You know Wills has to eat every hour or he has a meltdown. You hungry?”
Marah shook her head.
“Dorothy and I are going for some coffee,” Grandma said, moving toward Marah. “It’s been a tough last few hours. You want to come with us? I’ll buy you a hot chocolate. ”
“I’ll stay with her,” Marah said.
After everyone left, she stood at her godmother’s bedside, gripping the bedrails. Memories slipped in to stand beside her, crowded her on all sides. In almost all of her best childhood memories, Tully was there. She remembered Tully and Mom at Marah’s high school play, when Mom was so sick, all bald and hunched down in the wheelchair. From her place onstage, Marah had looked down at the two best friends and seen that they were both crying. Tully had leaned over and wiped the tears from Mom’s eyes.
“Tully?” Marah said. “Please hear me. I’m right here. It’s Marah, and I’m so sorry for what I did. I want you to wake up and yell at me. Please. ”
September 12, 2010
10:17 A. M.
“I’m sorry,” Dr. Bevan said quietly.
Dorothy wondered if the man knew how often he’d said these words in the past week. If there was one thing they were all certain of, it was this: Dr. Bevan was sorry that Tully hadn’t wakened from her coma. He still handed out hope as if it were a bit of hard candy he kept in his pocket for emergencies, but the hope in his eyes had begun to dim. He’d ordered a tracheotomy on day two to maintain something called efficient aeration of the lungs; a nasogastric feeding tube had been inserted into her nostril and taped in place.
Tully looked like she was sleeping. That was what bothered Dorothy the most as she sat in this room, hour after hour. Every single second felt charged with possibility.
Each of the last eight days, she’d thought: Today.
Today Tully will wake up.
But each evening came, sweeping darkness into the room, and each evening her daughter’s unnatural sleep went on.
Now Dr. Bevan had called them here for a meeting. It could hardly be a good sign.
Dorothy stood in the corner, with her back to the wall. In her wrinkled clothes and orange clogs, she felt like the least important person in the room.
Johnny stood tall, with his arms crossed at his chest and his sons standing close. His grief revealed itself in tiny things—the places he’d missed shaving this morning and the way he’d misbuttoned his shirt. Margie looked smaller, hunched. This past week had whittled her down, added pain to a heart that had already been full of it. And Bud had hardly taken off his sunglasses. Dorothy often felt he was teary-eyed behind the dark lenses. But it was Marah, of all of them, who looked the worst. She was the walking wounded: thin, unbalanced. She moved as if each footstep needed to be calculated with care. Most people would look at the girl, with her freshly dyed black hair and baggy jeans and sweatshirt and pale skin, and see a grieving young woman, but Dorothy, who knew regret so well, saw guilt in Marah’s gaze, and she hoped—as they all did—that this half life of Tully’s would end with good news. Dorothy wasn’t sure that any of them could handle the opposite.
“It’s time,” Dr. Bevan said, clearing his throat to get their attention again, “to talk about the future. Tully has been primarily unresponsive for eight days. She has recovered adequately from her acute injuries and shows no substantial evidence of brain injury, but the evidence of cognitive awareness fails to meet the medical criteria for intensive ongoing rehabilitation. In layman’s terms, this means that although there have been some reports of her opening her eyes or—once—coughing, we believe it’s time to consider custodial care. A hospital is no longer the place for her. ”
“She can afford—” Johnny began, but the doctor shook his head.
“Money isn’t the point, John. We treat critically ill patients. That’s what we do here. ”
Margie flinched at that, edged closer to Bud, who put an arm around her.
“There are several exceptional nursing homes in the area. I have a list—”
“No,” Dorothy said sharply. She looked up slowly. Everyone was staring at her.
She swallowed hard. “Can … I take care of her at home?”
It was difficult not to squirm uncomfortably under the doctor’s pointed perusal. She knew what he saw when he looked at her. An old hippie with moderate-to-poor hygiene skills.
But he had no idea what she’d survived just to be here. She lifted her chin, met the neurosurgeon’s narrowed gaze. “Is it possible? Can I care for her at home?”
“It’s possible, Ms. Hart,” he said slowly. “But you hardly seem…”
