I found something written in an old notebook of mine the other day—two lines, unattributed: When the witness is ready, the ghost will appear. When things wear thin. Possibly a quote, though from what I don’t know. It also reminds me of that old line about students and masters. As for wearing thin, meanwhile—
In retrospect, I suppose my life had worn plenty thin enough to let anything in, by the time this all began to happen.
But didn’t you know, by then? Everyone’s going to ask that, no doubt, as they watch me continue to flail around, to deny what’s literally right in front of my eyes. Given everything that’d happened, for Christ’s sake, wouldn’t anybody have stopped short and said to themselves: holy shit, it’s like I’m in some kind of horror movie, here?
To which I can only reply: I think not. Because, as you might have already noticed, nobody ever does think that.
Not even when they are.
I woke up in hospital two days later, by slow degrees. Didn’t have the least idea where I was, until I recognized the smell—astringent, metal-and-antiseptic—and the stiff, flex-framed feel of the mattress underneath me. Last time my back hurt this badly had been after my breast reduction. That jolt of memory was enough to kick me the rest of the way awake; I rolled my head side to side and shifted, pushing myself up a little, as bright, cold morning sunlight spilled across the floor. In a chair next to the bed, Mom sat, dozing with her chin propped up on one hand.
I tried to say something, but my typical morning-dry throat brought it out as an unintelligible rasp, which triggered a coughing fit. Mom jerked awake, sat up, and grabbed my hand. “Lois!?
?? she gulped. “Oh my God, honey, thank God, thank God . . .”
I got the cough under control, worked my jaw until some spit came back to my mouth and throat, squeezed her hand back. “What happened?” I asked at last.
Mom opened her mouth to answer, but then her face crumpled and she began to cry instead; sounded by the tone like it might be as much relief and exhaustion as anything else. Not knowing what to say—as ever—I let her weep it out, guessing she’d probably have far too much to say to let herself go too long. Sure enough, within a minute she was wiping her eyes and swallowing, back in control.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “It’s just—with you here, and then last night . . .”
I stared. “What happened last night?”
“You, ah, well, you had another seizure, sweetheart. Yesterday evening, while they were taking X-rays. Not as bad as the first one, up at that place, but afterwards, they couldn’t wake you up. Dr. Harrison said you were responsive to stimuli, though, so they said they’d try to let you sleep it off. . . .” She trailed off, perhaps finally noticing my expression. “You really don’t remember?”
This time, it was me who swallowed, and it hurt. “What . . . what day is it?”
“Tuesday, that’s why I’m here; Clark’s at school, Simon’s at work. God knows how he’s keeping his head straight, but—what?”
“This is St. Michael’s, right?” Though the smells were familiar, my breast reduction recovery room had been windowless, barely more than a two-cot closet to park people in until the anaesthetic wore off. But I’d finally matched the layout and positioning of this slightly more deluxe suite, obviously meant for somebody whose stay might be indefinite, to what I remembered from back when Clark was born. She nodded, confirming it. “Mom, I . . . honestly don’t know how I got here. Last thing I remember is, is—”
(Flash of skull-splitting agony, a grey reflection in broken glass, dirt-rimed and dull)
“—going up to Quarry Argent, on Friday. Being in the car with Safie. We talked about . . . Yezidic texts. That’s it.”
“You went to Whitcomb Manor on Saturday, took the tour. That’s where—it—happened.”
“What, ‘it’? You said another seizure . . .”
“That’s right. Listen, let me call Dr. Harrison—” As she reached to press the nurse’s button, I yanked on her hand without meaning to; must have done it extra-hard, because she stopped mid-gesture, letting slip a small, hurt noise. I let go.
“Shit, I’m sorry. Didn’t mean to . . .”
“All right, that’s okay.” She patted me with her other hand, awkwardly, smile just a hair shy of a grimace. “It’s fine, honey. Just let me make the call, and he’ll explain everything.”
So I slumped back. Moments later, a tall young black man with a Trinidadian accent was briskly checking my vitals, chart in hand. “Look up, please,” he told me. “Now down. Good. How’s your head?”
“Hurts, mostly.”
“Sharp pain or a dull pain?”
“Dull, I guess. Like a bad hangover.”
A nod to the IV stand, which held two bags, one half-deflated. “That’ll be the dehydration; we’ve had you on fluids since Sunday, but that’s just enough to keep the wheels greased. Are you hungry?”
“Um, maybe. Need the bathroom, though, pretty bad.”
“I’ll help you,” Mom said, eagerly. But I shook my head, wincing, and waved her away as Harrison levered me up. “I’ve got it,” I said, and limped off to the john, dragging my glucose behind me.