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Wuggle, Mama. Wuggle.
My breathing is a loud, hatcheted sound in the silent room as I try to rein my emotions back in. I blink away the film of tears gathering in my eyes and focus on Emily, my beautiful girl, with her eyes closed, her face slack, her body still.
Dan, Mama! Dan!
I picture her dancing, whirling around. I take her chubby hands in mine. I laugh; she sings for joy. Her head is tilted back, her smile wide. My beautiful, beautiful girl. I wipe my eyes and draw a steadying breath.
Then, in the terrible silence of this fractured moment, Emily opens her eyes. Dr. Brown has told me again and again this most likely means nothing, there is no real awareness, yet right now it feels different. Slowly her gaze moves from le
ft to right, searching the room. Finding me.
I lean forward, almost forgetting to breathe. I reach my hand out to hold hers. Her gaze fastens on me and she doesn’t look away, she doesn’t keep scanning vacantly, unable to truly see anything. She looks at me. My daughter sees me.
“Emily…” My voice is a hushed whisper, a sacred sound. “Emily.” Gently, so gently, her fingers squeeze mine. “Yes, Emily, yes, it’s Mama. I’m here, baby girl. I’m here.” I’m laughing and sobbing at the same time as I try to get the words out. “Can you hear me, darling? Can you hear me?” She is still looking at me, her gaze seeming so focused, so aware.
Yes, aware. I defy Dr. Brown or any of the other so-called experts to tell me this means nothing. I can feel her fingers squeezing mine again, and I know, I know she is in there, and she is trying to communicate. She’s trying. “We’re getting you better, sweetheart. I know it’s been hard, but I’m here and I love you. Daddy too…” I wish, with a fierce desperation, that James was here. That he could see this. “It’s all going to be okay. You don’t need to be afraid. I’m here. I’ll always be here.”
Emily’s fingers start to loosen on mine, and in panic I feel her ebb away. I want to hold onto her, but I know I can’t. Still, as her eyes flutter closed and her hand rests so still and slack in mine, I am buoyant. That was real. She was there, I know she was. I need to tell Dr. Rossi what happened.
But when I do, a little while later, practically gibbering in my excitement, he just smiles and nods. He doesn’t seem particularly pleased or impressed; in fact, I wonder if he is sceptical that it happened at all.
“She was really looking at me,” I insist, a strident note entering my voice. “I felt it. Like that man, the first one who had this treatment… they said he looked at people. He was trying to communicate.”
Dr. Rossi nods and says nothing. He’s holding a clipboard and he glances down at it.
“Don’t you think so, Dr. Rossi?” I ask, my voice a little too loud. I need him to agree with me, to tell me it really did happen, because suddenly I am doubting, as surely as he is. “Don’t you think she was trying to reach me?”
“It is very easy, in these situations,” he says in his careful, halting English, “to see what you wish to see.”
“You think I’m imagining it.” My voice is flat, my euphoria draining away.
“No, not quite that. I believe she looked at you. But… we must have more… proof. Reliable data. The scans of the brain do not show that level of awareness.”
“Then maybe your scans are wrong.” I’m so sick of scans, and percentages of brain function, as if a human soul can be measured and ranked. Your daughter is in the fortieth percentile of being. That’s basically what they’re saying, and I despise it. My daughter is my daughter, and today she tried to reach me. I know she did.
I turn away from him, furious and unable to hide it, and Dr. Rossi puts one hand on my arm.
“This is difficult, I know. I am sorry.”
Usually I’d murmur some kind of thanks for this useless platitude, but today I can’t. This isn’t difficult. It’s impossible, unbearable, and I don’t feel as if I can stand a second more of it without screaming. He has absolutely no idea how that feels. None.
He has never had a child lying in a bed like Emily; he has never seen her open her eyes and look at him. He’s viewing all of this form behind a computer screen or a clipboard, charting progress on a graph, discussing it—her—with his colleagues.
“Never mind,” I choke out, and I walk back to Emily’s room. She is lying in bed—she’s always lying in bed—and for a second I want to grab her by the shoulders and startle her awake. Wake up, Emily! I know you can do it. I know you’re there. You’ve got to be there. Just wake up, damn it!
My fists ball at my sides and for one horrifying second I almost do it. I almost grab my daughter by her shoulders and shake her. I can see myself walking over to the bed; I can see myself grabbing her. I can even see her body flailing uselessly in my grasp, her head lolling back, and I let out a stifled cry of despair before I fling myself into the chair by her bed, and drop my head into my hands.
Moments ago I was jubilant, and now I feel as low as I’ve ever been. For the first time I realize that I may not be able to take anymore, that I can’t do this, and that thought is terrifying.
“Rachel?” I look up at the sound of Eva’s tentative voice. She’s standing in the doorway, looking pale and a bit washed out, a little nervous. I could use some of her brisk good humor, her cheerful determination, but she doesn’t seem to have brought it along today. “Are you okay?”
I shrug, unable to find the words, much less say them.
“I saw Dr. Rossi walking down the hall. Has anything happened?”
I glance at Emily’s slack face, her closed eyes, and I wonder if I’d actually imagined it all. I’ve been so tired, so lost in memories… what if none of that happened? What if she didn’t open her eyes, didn’t squeeze my hand? What if I just wished she did, so much so that I imagined it happened? With a ripple of horror, I realize it is perfectly possible.
“I don’t know,” I whisper. I feel as if a tsunami is building inside me, a tidal wave of despair I’ve kept back for almost three years. I can’t let it out now. “I don’t know,” I say again, and I drop my head into my hands once more as a breath shudders through me. I can’t take anymore. I really can’t.
