9. Where Bear Receives a Poem

HAVE I ever told you how I feel about hospitals? No?
I hate them.

From the antiseptic smell, to the sterile white walls, to the way that everyone smiles at you, like they know what you’re going through, like they know exactly what you’re thinking. They don’t. They can’t know. They’ve been here too long, seen too much death and horror. They’re desensitized. They’re muffled. But still they smile and nod. A comforting hand dropped on a shoulder. A quiet voice while you sob. They know, they say. They know it can be hard to hear.

They don’t know. They have no idea.

The doors whoosh open, and I walk into the fluorescent white, and it’s blinding, and I wonder if this is what people mean when they say they saw a light when they die, this flash that overwhelms the senses all at once. Is that what it feels like after you die? I don’t want it. I don’t want it to happen. Fuck the light.

I scan the room, suddenly at a loss as to where I need to go. I don’t know who I need to talk too. I can’t remember the doctor’s name, because all I can think is Otter, all I can think is Mrs. Paquinn, all I can think is the Kid. They’ve taken everything else from me, and I don’t know what I’m supposed to be doing.

“Help,” I croak out. “Someone. Help me.”

But there’s no one. No one looks at me. No one even notices me. Can’t they see I’m breaking? Can’t they see that everything I love is in this place and if only I could just find them? And then. Then, then, then.

I see her. I know her. She’s walking toward me, her head down. I know her. I love her. I’d even loved her once. Her name. Her name. “Anna?” I call out, my voice high and strained.

She looks up and no. No, please. Oh, please, no. Her face is streaked with tears, and she sees me, and suddenly it’s like she crumples, and she wraps her arms around herself, and I bend over and gag, and all I can think is which one? Which one is it? I ignore that little voice in me that screams the name of the one I hope it isn’t, because that is a dark voice, a selfish voice. A voice that sounds exactly like my own.

“Anna! Which one is it!” I cry out, unable to stand up straight.

She doesn’t seem to hear me as she stumbles toward me, and then her arms are around me, and she cries into me. “How did you know?” she asks. “How did you know to come here?”

What does that matter? It doesn’t. It doesn’t matter. Give me a fucking name! “Tyson called,” I manage to say.

 

She pulls back and looks confused through her tears. “Tyson? How would he know? I didn’t tell anyone I was here!”

 

I don’t understand. “Otter?” I say meekly. “Mrs. Paquinn?”

She doesn’t get it. “I didn’t tell them, either! I just started feeling sick a couple of days ago, and it didn’t go away, so I came in to get checked out and… and… oh, Bear. Oh, I don’t know how or why or what now!” She starts crying again into my neck, and I want her to stop. I’ve got to find him. I’ve got to find my family. She’s part of it, but I need to find the rest. I want to tell her that she can go with me, that we can look for them together, but I don’t know how to say it.

“Creed’s going to kill me,” she sobs.
Creed? Creed?

Then she says, “Oh, Christ. I can’t be a mother! I can’t do that! How could we have been so stupid?”

Mother? I hate my mother. She left, and the Kid and I were alone, although not really. We had others. We had people. We had family. They weren’t blood, but blood doesn’t matter. They were ours and we were theirs. I need. I need them now.

“Bear,” she cries. “I can’t be pregnant! I just can’t be!”
Oh. Oh. That. She’s pregnant. Creed.
“How far?” someone asks, and I realize it’s me.

“Six weeks,” she sniffs. “Creed’s Christmas break. The condom must have broken.”

And suddenly I can speak. “Anna. I love you. I love you. We’ll fix this, somehow. But if you don’t let me go right now and let me find them, I’m going to shove you, and I know you’re having a baby and that’s bad, but I’ve got to find them. They’re here and I don’t know where, but I have to find them.”

She looks scared. “Who’s here, Bear? How’d you know to come here?”

I don’t want to say it out loud, because if I do it’ll make it true. But I have no choice because I’m not in my right mind. I’m on the edge of everything, and I am about to float away without my tether. But somehow, I do it anyways. Ah God, it hurts. It hurts so much. “Mrs. Paquinn had a stroke, I think. The Kid is here with her.”

The tears spill over her eyes again, and she moans. “Otter?” she asks. “Where is he? Tonight was supposed to be… tonight was….” She looks down at my left hand for some reason.

“Accident,” I say. “The hospital called and said there’s been an accident.”

She’s horrified, but then something happens to her. Something happens to Anna. The tears don’t exactly dry up, and she’s still hiccupping, but her face hardens and her eyes flash, and it’s like she’s alive, it’s like she knows. She pulls me into her arms, and her lips are near my ear and—

you’ve broken my heart

 

—I want to collapse against her, to let her carry the weight because I can’t. I can’t—

 

but it was mine to give

—take it anymore. I can’t take gifts only to have them taken away from me. I can’t have something to call my own because it will always be taken back. I don’t deserve this. I don’t deserve this woman holding me as she gathers her strength, as she gathers her courage to be the strong one, to be the one I can’t be right now. Everyone always leaves.

“We’ll find them,” she says harshly, in control. “We’ll find them all.”

THE Kid is first, as he rightly should be. I try not to think about the fact that he’s the only one out of the three that can probably hear me, that can actually know I’m there. Anna asked someone something, and we were led down a long hallway, the lights overhead buzzing. One of them flickered. I wanted to ask if they had someone to change that, but didn’t know why I should care.

And then I see the Kid, sitting in a plastic chair, a nurse bent down in front of him, talking to him quietly. His eyes are closed and his face scrunched up, and I know he’s been that way since I told him to do it. Anna lets me go, and I move quickly. The nurse sees me coming and takes a step back, looking like she’s about to say something, but I don’t listen. I don’t know who she is. The Kid is all I see. He gasps out and starts to shudder when he feels my arms go under his, and I pull him up, up, up, and he wraps himself around my neck and shakes and cries out. I try to tell him it will be okay. I try to tell him that everything will be all right, but I can’t seem to find the words. And it’s because I don’t know if things will be okay. I’m supposed to be the adult here, and I can’t even tell my nine-year-old brother that things will be fine because I don’t know if they will be. I’m ashamed, but it doesn’t free the words from my mouth.

“What happened?” I ask him finally.

“She just fell,” he says as he trembles. “She said something was wrong, and her face was wrong, and she fell.” This starts him off again, and I am finally able to whisper nothings to him, telling him I’ve got him, can’t he feel that? I look over at Anna and see she’s on the phone, and tears are on her face, and she says, “Otter,” and “Mr. Thompson,” so she must be on the phone with his parents, letting them know what little she does.

And that almost knocks me flat. I have Tyson and he’s safe, but I have a choice. I can find Otter. Or I can find Mrs. Paquinn. I can’t do both right now. It has to be one or the other, and my heart cracks a little as there really is no question.

“Where’s Otter?” the Kid says miserably. “Did he come with you?” “Oh,” is all I’m able to get out. Where is Otter?

But I’m saved again by my pregnant ex-girlfriend. She hangs up the phone and wipes her face as she walks toward us. “I’ve called the Thompsons,” she says quietly as she touches the Kid’s face. “They’re on their way. They’re going to call ahead to make sure you don’t have any… issues trying to get in.” I know she’s being vague on purpose, and I’m almost stunned when I realize what she means. I never thought that the hospital might not let me in to see him, to get information. It didn’t seem to be an issue when the doctor called me, so I didn’t stop to think it might be one when I got here. Anger starts to fill in that pit in my stomach, and it’s unwarranted (at least so far), but I already know that if anyone tries to stop me from getting to my man, it’s going to be the last thing they ever do. Nothing is going to stop me from getting to him.

I nod. “Kid? I need you to listen to me for a moment, okay? I have to go check on something, and I’ll be back as soon as I can. Anna’s going to be here with you, and she’s going to talk to the doctor for me to find out what is going on with Mrs. Paquinn.”

I turn to look at the nurse who is hovering nearby. “My name is Derrick McKenna. Theresa Paquinn is a member of my family, and I think I have permission to hear from her doctor about her condition. Is that correct?”

The nurse nods. “She filed a power of attorney with her health insurance a couple of years ago, and we already had it in her file. I just need to see a driver’s license.”

Anna pulls my wallet out of the tux pocket and shows my ID as I hold the Kid. Once the nurse seems to be satisfied, I tell her Anna can get information in my stead. The nurse reluctantly agrees but must see something in my eyes that tells her I’m not in any mood to be fucked with.

“Where are you going?” the Kid asks me, starting to panic again. He clings to my neck, the suit coat.

“I have to make sure everything else is okay,” I tell him as gently as I can with a voice that I don’t recognize. “I promise I’ll be back, okay? Anna will stay with you the whole time.”

The Kid looks like he wants to resist, but he allows Anna to help him slide down me, and she takes his hand and pulls him close, hugging him to her side. He’s still shaking. It’s almost impossible for me to walk away.

But I do.

I make it down the elevator and try to find someone who can help me, anyone who can point the way. I finally come to a nurses station and a name comes to me: Moore. Dr. Moore. I ask the nurse on duty if she can page Dr. Moore. She tells me she can and asks me to have a seat. I do, only because I don’t know where else to go.

I watch my hands as an unknown amount of time passes. My thoughts are jumbled and tied together, the common thread being Otter. Otter is there no matter where I look. Is he alive? Is he awake? How bad is he hurt? He’s such a baby when it comes to pain, and I don’t know how much I can stand the thought of him hurting. He complains when he stubs his toe, and for such a big guy, it’s funny. It’s so funny it hurts. And… it’s… and….

He can’t. He just can’t.
“Derrick McKenna?” A voice says.

I look up and see an older woman staring down at me, a soft look on her face. She’s in scrubs, and for a moment, I think they’re covered in blood, but it’s just my mind playing tricks on me and the illusion vanishes as quickly as it arrived.

“Dr. Moore?” I ask.

 

She shakes her head. “Dr. Moore is in surgery, Derrick. My name is Dr. Woods. I was asked to come out and give you what information we have.” I’m almost able to breathe a sigh of relief. “So… you can tell me things? Even though he’s my….” I can’t finish because of the lump in my throat.

But she’s kind and seems to understand. “Yes. You’re listed as next of kin, which is just fine for now. We may need to make some… medical decision in the future, but for now, we’re okay.”

“There he is,” I hear a woman cry out. “Derrick!” I look up and see Alice and Jerry running toward me. Alice looks like she’s been crying, and Jerry’s face is lined and hard. I try to stand, but my legs won’t work, and they come to me, and I’m surrounded by them as they hug me and ask me what I know, to please say he’s okay, and that they’re here now, that I won’t have to be alone, but is he okay?

Dr. Woods clears her throat.
“Otter’s parents,” I say.
Dr. Woods arches an eyebrow. “Otter?”

“Nickname. Oliver. This is Dr. Woods. She was about to tell me stuff, I think.”

 

“He can hear everything we can,” Alice snarls. “He’s my son’s partner.”

“She knows that,” I say, trying to calm her down. “She said she could tell me because Otter already made sure that if something happened, I wouldn’t be left out.”

“How is he?” Jerry asks.

“He’s in surgery right now,” Dr. Woods says. “He has a broken femur”—she points to her left thigh—“and a broken radius”—she points to her left arm. “There also appears to be a laceration to his kidney, but that doesn’t look too severe. What we’re most concerned about at the moment is the swelling in his brain. It appears he hit his head against the window when he was struck. It’s too soon to say if there is any damage there that needs to be addressed, but if the swelling does not go down in a day or two, most likely a portion of his skull will need to be removed to help relieve the pressure there. Once the swelling has gone down, we’ll be able to perform a CT scan with some dye that we’ll inject to be able to determine if there is any brain damage.”

Words. So many words. And all I can hear is “brain damage.” That’s all I focus on. That’s all there seems to be.

“Now,” the doctor continues, “he’s going to be in surgery for a while longer, and then he’ll be moved into the ICU, and you’ll be allowed to see him. I will tell you that no matter how much I can prepare you, no matter what I say to you, it’s always a shock to see a loved one after having been involved in an accident. He won’t necessarily look like the Oliver that you know. He’ll have some pretty severe bruising, some superficial burns on his arms and face from the airbag. He’ll be hooked up to a respirator to assist him with his breathing. There are other machines he’ll be hooked up to that monitor his vitals. He’ll have stitches above his right eye for a cut he sustained, and temporary casts on his leg and arm. But, he still is the Oliver you know. He is still your son and partner and that is what you have to remember.” Her face and voice are kind. It’s almost too much. “I think it’s safe for you all to be cautiously optimistic. He’s a big guy, and he’s in great shape, so his body will be able to heal because of that. He won’t wake up right away, and it actually may be up to a couple of weeks, so just please remember to have patience. I like to think that people in his situation can hear you, so talk to him, love him, let him know you’re there.”

Jerry and Alice ask question after question, but I’m numb. Cautiously optimistic? What does that even mean? Proceed with caution. Caution means to slow down. To be wary. To be watchful.

“When can I see him?” I blurt out, interrupting the conversation around me.

 

Dr. Woods watches me for a moment. “Did you say his nickname was Otter?”

I nod, a tear spilling from my eye.
“You wouldn’t happen to be Bear, would you?”
“Yes,” I gasp out.

She smiles sadly at me as she reaches into her pocket and pulls out a plastic bag, smeared lightly with blood. Inside I see a wallet. It’s Otter’s. That’s Otter’s blood. My eyes burn.

She opens the bag and pulls out a piece of paper with bloody fingerprints on it wrapped around a little box. “I think this is yours. He had it clutched in his hand when he was brought in here. The EMTs told us that he was conscious for a brief moment at the scene when they arrived, and that he said he couldn’t lose what was in his hand, that he needed to get to Bear. He… seemed to think you were in the car. It was still in his hand when they brought him in, and the note has your name on it, and I knew he’d want you to have it. I put a rubber band around it to hold them together.”

She hands the bag to Jerry and the note-wrapped box to me. The blood is still tacky against my hands. Otter’s blood. In my hands.

Dr. Woods tells us that she’ll be back once she has an update, and that we should just sit tight for now. She’ll let us know once he’s done with surgery and we can see him.

I wait until she walks away before I start to breathe again.
This box. This little box in my hand.

I slide off the rubber band and peel off the note, opening it to see Otter’s handwriting mixed in with the Kid’s scrawled across the lined paper, the blood smudging some of the words, but not enough to make them illegible. I wish they were. The words are a beginning, and I feel like I’m at the end.

Bear! Bear! Bear!
I’ve something to say! Don’t be scared!
Bacon is bad! Beef is wrong!
Mad Cow Disease stays with you for a time that’s long! I want you to be mine, can’t you see?
That’s why I am down, down on my knee!
It may not yet be legal,
but it’s better than eating a beagle,
so won’t you please marry me?

The note flutters from my hand and falls to the floor.

 

“Bear?” Alice asks, her voice shaky, but she’s so far away. “Bear, what’s wrong?”

The little box. I open it. Alice and Jerry Thompson gasp.
Two rings, side by side. Silver catching the harsh lighting. One’s bigger than the other and it’s this one I lift out. It’s heavy. An inscription on the inner curve: O & B Forever. It’s on the little ring too.

Before I know what I’m doing, I’m running. I’m running down the hallway. I’m running through the doors. Running out into the night, the parking lot. I fumble with my keys because I’m practically blind with rage and fear and somehow I make it in the car and start it up and tear out of the parking lot without hitting anyone. I’m driving and driving and driving, retracing my steps from earlier in the night until I’m back on the beach. Back on the beach where I’d begged that bastard God to give me back what is mine. I tear down the hill, the sand flying up around me.

The only sound is the waves. The ocean.

I look up at the sky and scream. No words come out, but the anger is like fire, and my mind is ablaze because I hate God. I hate him so fucking much. He’s done this to me. He’s trying to take from me. He won’t ever let me be happy. He watches and watches and watches for ways to make my life miserable. It’s unfair. I get something finally, something that resembles happiness, that resembles a life, and he takes it away from me.

My feet feel wet, and I realize it’s because I’m knee-deep in water, still screaming. But I seem to have found my words: “You give them back, you fucking asshole! They’re not yours! They never belonged to you!” The box clutched into my hand cuts into my palm, like it’s telling me, “I’m here, I’m here,” and I have to stop myself from chucking it as hard as I can out into the ocean. The ocean whose waves are now at my waist.

“I’ve done everything! I’ve given up everything! What fucking more do you want me to do! You bring them back to me, goddammit!”

I don’t know how long I’m doing this, how long I scream at God as the waves crash around me. One knocks me over and my head goes under, and saltwater goes up my nose and I choke, sand and grit in my eyes. I break the surface as I stand, sputtering out my anger, trying to inhale, to fill my lungs, but I can’t seem to catch my breath. I try to curse him again, but I begin to retch instead, my stomach cramping painfully. My head is pounding, and I can’t tell if the roar is coming from inside me or from the ocean. The ground feels shaky underneath my feet, and there’s a sense of being pulled as the waves recede and my feet are buried further in the sand. My voice is going hoarse now, and I don’t even know if I’m shouting words anymore. I don’t know if it matters.

Eventually things begin to fade around me, and all I’m aware of is the box in my hand—

 

o & b forever

—that I’ve gripped so tight that it’s cut into my palm, and the saltwater stings as the blood drips down my fingers. I remember the first time he said my true name—

bear bear bear

 

—and the first time he held me when the earthquakes threatened to break me. I’d been frightened then—

 

i’ve something to say don’t be scared

 

—but he had been my protector, my watcher, my brother, and friend. Then it hits me that I’m thinking of him already in the past tense, like— it may not yet be legal

—like he’s already gone, like he’s gone and I’ll never see him again. This tears at my heart, and I gasp out again, only to have more water pour in my mouth. I can’t see because I’m blind and—

so won’t you please please please

—then there’s a voice in my head, but it’s not the voice, because that voice sounds like me, because it is me. This voice is different, and it’s shouting my name, and I wonder if it’s God. I wonder if it’s that bastard God finally responding to me, finally talking back to me. If it is him, I’m going to kill him. I’m going to make him wish he’d never decided to fuck with my family. There’s a small rational part of me trapped under the waves that scoffs at this, telling me of course it’s not God, and how could I ever really think so? God, it says, is not one to respond to threats, not even if they’re meant with every fiber of your being. God doesn’t have time to listen to such an insignificant little speck such as yourself because he’s too busy fucking everyone over. God deals in pain, it whispers, not resolution. You won’t get what you want by drowning in waist-deep salt water and screaming at the sky like it means something. That never solves anything.

I hear all this and more, but that voice gets more insistent and grows louder in my ears, and only then do I feel strong arms wrapped around my chest, and I’m being pulled out of the water. The cold air hits me then, like being buried in ice, and my teeth start to chatter, and my ears and nose are so cold that I start to shake. I want to fight whoever this is off because I’m not done. I haven’t finished my say. I struggle weakly in their arms, but they’re much stronger than me, and no matter how much I kick and flail my arms, I’m not released. If anything, the grip grows stronger. There’s strength there, and it reminds me of him, reminds me of my man, and the anger is black and all-consuming, and I howl at the fucking sky and at that fucking God. I’m no longer articulate, but my voice is still there, loud and mournful.

And then I’m out of the water and dropped onto the sand. My would-be rescuer collapses beside me, shivering and breathing heavily.

 

Isaiah.

“Bastard,” I mutter as my teeth chatter. “You fucking bastard. Leave me alone. I’m busy.” I try to get back up but fall down again as Isaiah shoves me hard.

“What the fuck were you trying to do?” he snarls at me. “You trying to kill yourself? Jesus Christ, Bear!”

 

“Just having an argument,” I retort. “None of your business. Go away. Leave me alone.”

“Like hell,” he snaps as he stands. “I know this sucks, Bear. I know it hurts. But you can’t give up. You just can’t. There’s too many people who depend on you. People that need you.”

“What about what I need!” I shout at him. “Why is it always about everyone else? What the hell about me!” I turn to start back toward the water, but a hand reaches out and latches on to my arm, holding me tightly.

“Now’s not the time to be selfish,” Isaiah growls at me. “I may not know everything that’s happened to you, though I’m starting to get a good idea. I know how your friends see you, Bear. They know you’re strong, that you’ve gotten shit all of your life but that you’ve survived. Somehow, you survived. I haven’t known you that long, but even I can see that. When Anna called me and told me what had happened and asked me to come here and get you, I could hear it in her voice. Your family needs you, Bear. You’re the one thing that holds them all together, and without you, they’re just as lost.”

No. What he’s saying can’t be true. I’m not the strong one. I’m not the pin. I’m Bear. I hold things in and overreact to other things and make decisions that I think will keep us alive at least another day. I’m weak. And frightened. And selfish and wrong and desperate. I’m a self-serving martyr who doesn’t give a rat’s ass except for those that are closest to me, those that I think I can trust but know that I’m really just waiting for the other shoe to drop.

And it has , it points out. It has dropped, and the world is crashing down around you, and the man you love is lying by himself, because you can’t even think of anything besides how it makes you feel, how insanely fearful you are. And what of Mrs. Paquinn? Are you yelling at your God for her? Do you think of her when you scream at him to give them back? You say “they,” but we know what you mean. If there’s a choice to be made, if you had to choose, we know what you would do. That little dark voice doesn’t just sound like you. No. Much like myself, it is you. It’s time for you to stand up, Bear. It’s time for you to stop getting knocked down and cowering down in the sand. It’s time to get the fuck up.

“Is he still alive?” I ask him quietly, the wet tux hanging heavily on my frame. “Are they both?”

Isaiah watches me for a moment, as if judging the sanity in my eyes. He must like what he sees, or at the very least understands it’s all he’s going to get when he says, “Anna indicated so when she called. Bear. I’m sorry. I’m sorry about all of this. But you’ve got to be strong now. You’re family needs you. Otter and Mrs. Paquinn need you.”

He’s right. I hate him, but he’s right. I might not believe the voice in my head completely, I might not believe God doesn’t have it out for me, but the little box now covered in my blood and Otter’s blood is real. It’s there. It’s in my hand and that is enough for now. It has to be.

I walk toward the cars, and Isaiah trails after me. I tell him we’ll stop by the Green Monstrosity to change our clothes. He nods and agrees to follow me there. I turn on the car and crank the heater. And, without allowing myself to think too much about what it could mean, I open the box in my hand, find the little ring, and slip it on my finger.

It fits perfectly.

THAT first day was the hardest. That first day was the day that there were so many questions, so few answers, and when we all had to dig in for a wait that we didn’t know how long would last. When I got back to the hospital, Otter was still in surgery and Mrs. Paquinn was undergoing countless tests that I didn’t quite understand. The Kid saw me first, walking down the hallway, and ran toward me, leaping into my arms. His face was dry and his eyes were cautious, and he told me that he’d heard about Otter, that he knew he needed to help me be strong and that he’d make sure we got through it. Because, he said, didn’t I know that Otter was a big guy? Didn’t I know that Otter wouldn’t dare leave us because of how mad it would make the both of us? I nodded at him. Sure, Kid, I told him. It’d piss us both off. He wouldn’t dare.

Everyone saw the ring on my finger. No one said a thing about it. We were told that Mrs. Paquinn had had a CVA, or a cerebrovascular event, which led to an ischemic stroke caused by a clot. The doctor indicated that per the CT scan and MRI done, they believed her stroke had been of a rare variety: a cerebral venous sinus thrombosis, which is essentially a clot in the dural venous sinuses which drain blood from the brain. Mrs. Paquinn had mentioned a light headache earlier in the day, the Kid had said, but that she said she was fine. His eyes went wide at this, as if he thought there was some way he could have stopped this from occurring, and it took all of us, including the doctor, to convince him otherwise. Even then, I don’t think he believed us. The doctor said that treatment was usually with anticoagulants to suppress the blood clotting, but that there was indication of raised intracranial pressure, and that they might need to operate to put a shunt in to help relieve that pressure.

No one else seemed to dare ask the one question we all wanted to know, the one question that danced across all of our minds. Whether they didn’t want to know the answer or they didn’t think it was their place to ask, I don’t know. But I’ve never been one to have a filter, and I asked what everyone was too scared to.

“Will she live?”

The doctor sighed as he watched me, obviously having been expecting that question. I wondered how practiced his answer would be. What I didn’t expect was his bluntness. “Chances are not good,” he said quietly, and the Kid started to shake. “The CVST occurs mostly in women, and while the mortality rate is moderately low, given Mrs. Paquinn’s age, it is definitely going to be an uphill battle. Should she survive, the chances of there being significant aftereffects from the stroke are high. Most likely she would need round-the-clock care for the rest of her life. Our biggest concern right now, though, is the probability of further strokes. They may not be as severe as the first, but they could do irreparable damage. Think of them like aftershocks to an earthquake. While they may not match the original in intensity, the foundations have already been shaken and don’t need much to fall down.”

Aftershocks. Earthquakes. “Thank you, Doctor.”

He nodded and said he would let us know when we could see her before he got up and walked away. Before I did anything else, I turned to the Kid and pulled him into my lap. “You did everything you could have,” I whispered to him as he shook in my arms. “There’s nothing more that you could have done. Even if she had a headache, you could not have stopped this. You hear me?”
He nods but continues to shake.

Aftershocks. I know a thing or two about aftershocks.

Otter’s surgery went well, or as well as it could have gone. Dr. Moore and Dr. Woods joked around with us that now that he had a steel rod in his leg, he was going to set off metal detectors no matter where he went, just like he was a robot. We all tried to smile at this, but it was strained. He was moved to recovery, and we were told that we could go in and see him a couple at a time and only for a few minutes. I started to sit back down to allow Alice and Jerry to go in first, when they stopped me without so much as exchanging a word to each other.

“You should go,” Alice said. “You go first.”

I started to protest, but Jerry shook his head. “If it’s true,” he said roughly, “if he can hear us even though he can’t respond, then he’s going to want to hear your voice first. He’s going to want to know you’re there. He needs you now, Bear, and you need to be first. If anyone can bring our son back, it’s you.”

I thought about arguing, to tell them that they were so wrong, but in the end I didn’t. Not necessarily because I believed everything that they said, but because I needed to see him. I needed to touch his hand, rub my fingers along his skin just to prove to myself that he was still alive, that the doctors weren’t liars and that he hadn’t died the moment he’d been struck. I needed to see him to prove to myself that he was still real.

I was led down a hallway and through a pair of double doors with a red line across the floor, a warning not to cross. I hesitated, the nurse holding the door open for me, and then crossed anyways. We walked past rooms, some doors opened with machines beeping quietly, some doors closed to hide whatever grief lay inside. I didn’t know what time it was but was sure it was very early morning. Would they allow me to come back? Was there such a thing as visitor hours when it was the man you loved who lay there, his body only doing God knows what? I wanted to ask the nurse, but I couldn’t seem to find my voice. We passed another room, and a woman was crying in a corner, a man quietly consoling her as the person in the bed in front of them did nothing. He looked up as we walked past the door, and for a moment, our eyes caught and something passed between us. An understanding, a knowledge that I couldn’t shake.

Room 403. The numbers added up to seven. That was my first thought. I don’t know why I had it. The nurse paused at the door and turned to me, and again warned me about what I would see, that he was not the Otter that I remembered. I nodded almost impatiently, and I think she saw this because she smiled quietly at me and opened the door.

The first thing I noticed was the machines. Machines that whirred. And beeped. And pumped and hissed. There seemed to be so many of them, and I laughed wildly in my head and wondered if Otter was even in there anymore. I pushed this thought away. Of course he is, I thought. He’s in there. He’s in there. I could almost believe it. How could I not?

The second thing I noticed was that he had a window in the room and that the blinds were shut. This bothered me for some reason. I don’t know why I wanted them open, but then realized it was dark and cold outside. I wanted to ask if he could be moved to a room without any windows. I couldn’t think of a way to say it without sounding crazy, so I said nothing.

The third thing I noticed? I noticed Otter.

It seemed every inch of exposed skin was covered in bruises, a dark tapestry of blues and blacks, greens and purples. Some were mottled, some looked like they were spread up entire swatches of skin. His face looked swollen under the bandages wrapped around the top of his head. A clear gluelike substance covered the cut on his forehead, and I wondered where the stitches went. There was a cast on his left arm. On his left leg, elevated in a harness above the bed. I saw his toes sticking out, and it was only then that I could take a breath, and I had to reach out and steady myself against the wall. My vision grayed for a moment, but I forced myself back.

Because I knew that even under the bruising and the machines and the casts, even under the bandages and the blinds that kept out the dark, this was still Otter. I could see that. Even with the colors that shouldn’t have been there on his skin, even though his face looked distended, I could still see him in there, buried but recognizable. It was that feeling, that darkly glorious feeling that broke the last hesitancy I might have had, and before I knew it, I was at his side. I raised my hands to touch him, but stopped myself. The doctor said she thought that he could hear us, that we should talk to him, to let him know that we were there. But if he had that cognizance, wouldn’t he still be able to feel pain? What if I hurt him? I couldn’t do that. I couldn’t hurt him. I loved him.

The nurse seemed to sense my turmoil and led me to the other side of his bed, his good arm bruised, but better than the other. In fact, his entire right side looked better than the left. It was like he’d been divided in half with one side almost normal, the other dipped in watercolor. The nurse indicated I could take his hand, and so I did. It was cool to the touch, that big hand so familiar in my own. I wrapped my hand around his and squeezed, momentarily distressed when it didn’t squeeze back. I don’t know why I expected it to. The nurse seemed to understand my need for privacy and walked out of the room.

I didn’t know what to say. I felt slightly foolish at the thought of speaking to him, that of course he wouldn’t be able to hear me. He was unconscious, for Christ’s sake. Maybe in a coma. I didn’t know. All I could remember was the words “brain damage” and wondered what that would mean for him, for us, if that was the case. Too many scenarios ran through my head. What if he woke up and was different? What if he was… damaged? What if, in a crazy soap opera twist, he didn’t remember me because he had amnesia, and I had to make him fall in love with me all over again? I would show him pictures, I knew, of us and his family to remind him of what he had. I would tell him constantly that I loved him and that he would come back to me and remember me and love me again. That darker part of my brain wondered what would happen if he did wake up but that the Otter I knew and loved was gone, that what if he would be a blank slate, unaware of his surroundings, disabled beyond any repair. I was astonished by my response to that dark voice, the same response I’d given to my other thoughts: I would show him pictures of us and his family to remind him of what he had. I would tell him constantly that I loved him. Every day he would know I loved him.

I brought up my free hand to wipe at my face, and the ring on my finger glinted in the low light, a flash that was brilliant and heartbreaking. I dropped my left hand on top of his. “You’ll see,” I said. “You’ll see. You and me? We aren’t done yet. Not by a long shot. I promise you that. I don’t care what it takes. I don’t care how you come back to me. But you come back, you hear me? You come back and everything will be fine. I don’t care if you can’t walk right, or if you can’t think right, or if you can never remember my name. It won’t matter to me, just as long as you come back. You’ll see. You’ll see how great it can be.”

Bear! Bear! Bear! I’ve something to say, don’t be scared!

THE second day was the hardest. The second day was the hardest because nothing changed much for either of them. Otter still look beat to hell, and Mrs. Paquinn looked frail and old. It was somehow worse to sit beside Mrs. Paquinn, given how much she looked like she had shrunk in the last couple of days. Otter was still big and even though he was still silent and smattered with colors that seemed to grow darker, his size seem to negate the injuries.

It wasn’t so with Mrs. Paquinn. The vibrant little lady who’d rescued me from myself time and time again seemed to be collapsing in on herself, the skin on her arms looking dusty and paper thin, the breathing tube down her throat looking obscenely large on such a small woman. When I wasn’t with Otter, I was with her. The staff had tried to limit my time with the both of them, but it only took one look from all the members of my family (by now, Anna’s parents had arrived, not yet knowing that there was a third part to play in all of this, that their daughter was fighting her own mind and body) to show the staff that we were not to be fucked with, that not only was our strength lying silent down the hall, our heart was wasting away in front of us. The protests became weaker and weaker until they became nothing at all.

Creed arrived on the afternoon on the second day, as did Dominic. Creed came first, and I was standing near the coffee machine, debating on whether or not $1.25 was too much for the swill that came out (and this debate was the only thing that kept me from shattering, so it was one I had every hour on the hour). I heard him say my name and when I looked up, my eyes and mind played a trick on me, and for a moment, I was sure it was Otter. I was sure Otter was standing in front of me, saying my name, his arms wide open and waiting for me to run to him.

“What?” I managed to croak out. “What?”

And then he was on me, and it didn’t smell like Otter. It was Creed, and he was breathing heavily into me, trying to maintain control, trying to be the strong one. But I’d already assumed that role. I’d already decided that I would be the strong one now. So I told him it was okay, that he was here now, and I felt him quake in my arms, and for the first time in my life, I held my best friend while he broke down and cried. The noise that came from him threatened to sap my strength, but I knew it would be no good for either of us, so I waited until I was sure I could maintain control before I spoke again, telling him quietly in his ear how Otter was doing, how Mrs. Paquinn was doing, the few updates that we had looked positive for Otter, less positive for Mrs. Paquinn. He nodded through his tears and listened.

I didn’t say anything to him about Anna. I didn’t even know if he knew. I didn’t think it was my place to bring it up, but it would be my place to stand beside the both of them when it came out. I was, after all, the strong one now.

I let Creed go when Alice and Jerry came up and hugged Creed, and I left the Thompsons there, telling them I needed to get some air, that I’d be right back.

I found a supply closet somewhere down the hall and went inside and broke. When I came back out, I was strong again.

Dominic showed up hours later, and as soon as he walked into the waiting room, the Kid was up and off his seat, and his little arms wrapped around Dominic’s waist, and Dominic looked surprised, if only for a moment. Then his own arms came down and wrapped themselves around the Kid, and they went to the opposite side of the room and sat down in some empty chairs. I could see Dominic whispering something into the Kid’s ear as the Kid sobbed into his shoulder and eventually, the tears subsided and the Kid calmed, and at one point, I thought I heard a short bark of watery laughter come from my little brother, and I was grateful. I was grateful for that moment.

Eventually, they walked back over to me, and I smiled up at Dominic, trying to show him that I was the strong one now, and he seemed to see right through it and grabbed me in a rough hug of my own. He whispered something to me, but I couldn’t make out what it was. I don’t know that it mattered. The intent was there, and I could understand that.

I stayed the strong one.
“Happy birthday,” I whispered to Otter later that night.
Bacon is bad! Beef is wrong!

THE third day was the hardest. The third day was the hardest because they had to do emergency surgery on Mrs. Paquinn to apply the shunt in her brain, as the anticoagulants didn’t seem to be working, and she continued to have the mini-strokes that you couldn’t even tell were happening by looking at her. Aftershocks can be like that, I’m told. She was down in radiology having tests done while I sat with Otter when I heard an emergency code over the intercom, and I closed my eyes because I knew what it meant, who it was for.

The others were gone, per my insistence, letting them know I needed them to get out of the hospital for a while, that I needed them to take the Kid out to lunch or whatever, just to get his mind off what was going on. There was still an intense debate ongoing as to whether or not he’d return to school the next day (I was for it, he was against it, of course). I told him Otter and Mrs. Paquinn wouldn’t want him falling behind. He told me that it wasn’t fair in the slightest to say that because no one could know what they would say. I told him then that I was telling him he would go. He said we’d see. And then I’d dropped it, because I could see him starting to get worked up again, and I wondered if he would ever forgive me if something would happen to either of them when and if he wasn’t here. I was the strong one, now, and I leaned over and pulled him into my lap, and we sat and watched Otter do nothing but breathe with the help of the machines.

So, I said, the Kid needed a break. They all told me I did too. I shook my head, quietly saying that I was where I was needed. There looked like there would be arguments to the contrary, and there even seemed to be a discussion as to how to force me away, but it was abandoned by the flash in my eyes, the baring of my teeth. People noticed the ring on my finger as I twisted it viciously but said nothing. Nor did they say anything about the one hanging from a chain around my neck. I told them I needed to be alone with my partner, that I needed to talk to him, to please, just give me that. I was the strong one, I told them. I would be strong for them, but I needed him right then, and I needed him alone.

They left soon after.
O & B Forever.

I sat with him, holding his hand, telling him how funny he looked, how embarrassed he was going to be when he woke up and I showed him the pictures. I told him about Anna and how confused that made me feel. I wondered aloud what was going to happen to them, if they were going to be okay. Of course they would, I told him after a minute. They were family, after all. They would be taken care of, just like the rest of us. We watch our own, I said to Otter. We always have, even if we didn’t always know what it meant.

I grew angry then, even though I tried to keep it to myself. Rational thought and I were no more than passing acquaintances on that third day, and I asked Otter if he thought that it was Anna and Creed’s fault that this happened, that God thought we could only have so many people in our family and that by her getting pregnant, that he had to take some away to make room for the fucking baby. My grip on his hand tightened before I pulled away, horrified that I’d hurt him further. He didn’t say, one way or another, so I took his hand in mine again, and I leaned down and kissed the knuckles with my dry lips, and now that we were alone, now that everyone else was gone, I whispered to him that I didn’t want to be the strong one anymore, that I needed him to wake up and be strong because I was so tired of trying to carry it all on my own. I told him that I’d do anything if he just opened his eyes and looked at me and the gold-green would be aware and he would smile and it would be that crooked grin and he would tell me how good I’ve been, how so very strong I was, but it’s okay because he’s here now. He’s here to help me. I waited. And waited. Nothing happened.

Then the emergency code was announced over the intercom, and the woman said “Radiology,” and I closed my eyes and lay my forehead against his hand. It could be anyone, I told myself. It could be anyone.

But I knew.

 

Mad Cow Disease stays with you for a time that’s long!

 

THE fourth day was the hardest. The fourth day was the hardest because that’s the day my mother came to see me.