King's Lynn Writers' Circle Short Story Third Prize 2007:
'Locked In, Locked Out' by Rosemarie Rose of CWMBRAN, Torfaen
The click of the opening door. The squeak-squeak of rubber soles on tiles. The slap-slap of Hannah’s sandals. The sexy red pair…? The sensible tan…? I decide on sensible tan. The red ones have kitten heels and I don’t hear heels today.
“No change, Mrs Salmond.” Cally, the late shift nurse. “We so hoped there would be, especially today. But keep talking to him.”
I see with my mind’s eye the look Cally gives my wife. Apologetic, sympathetic. I wonder what’s so special about today.
Cally’s rubber feet retrace their steps. The door clicks shut. Hannah’s breath and lips on my cheek, as soft and fleeting as a passing butterfly. The scrape of chair legs. Hannah’s sigh as she sits down. Heavily; as if she has the weight of the world on her shoulders.
Which she does, of course.
As Hannah prepares for our one-sided chat, I listen to the shuff shuff of the ventilator, the bleep bleep of the monitors. I imagine Hannah no longer hears them. I expect they’ve blended into her background after all these weeks. I’m even more used to them than she, of course, but I cling to my sense of hearing like a shipwrecked sailor clings to a plank in the middle of a vast and empty ocean.
“Hello, Michael.” The soft-spoken words ooze like honey. Oh, Hannah, my lovely Hannah. How I miss you.
“It’s June 21st, Michael. The anniversary of the accident.”
If my sense of hearing was as undeveloped as it used to be, I doubt I’d have noticed the catch in her voice. My poor darling Hannah. And has it really been a year? I must have been comatose for a while. A long while and I didn’t know. Like no-one knows I’m here now, wide awake in this paralysed husk.
“It’s a gorgeous day.” Brisk now, a forced smile. And no longer wanting to talk about the accident. “Clear blue sky, and they say it will last all weekend. My hanging baskets look fabulous, Michael – red, blowsy begonias.” She gives a snort of laughter. “Who’d have thought it? Me, a gardener!”
Who indeed. I’m the gardener in this marriage, not brown-fingered Hannah. It’s how I earn my living. At least, it was.
I picture Hannah’s hanging baskets, begonias tumbling in an exuberant explosion of scarlet either side of our green front door.
The click of the opening door. The squeak-squeak of rubber soles. The tappety-tap of Hannah’s high heels. Navy. It’s a weekday. She’s come straight from the department store and they match her smart, navy work suit.
“No change, Mrs Salmond. But it could happen any time so keep trying.”
Cally’s rubber feet retrace their steps. The door clicks shut. Hannah’s breath and lips on my cheek, as soft and fleeting as a falling leaf. The scrape of chair legs.
While Hannah prepares herself, I listen to the ventilator, the bleep bleep of the monitors.
“It’s autumn, Michael. The sycamore at the bottom of the garden looks amazing. It’s so bright I can hardly bear to look at it.” She’s silent for a moment. Then: “We always said we’d visit New England, didn’t we, to see the fall colours.”
My mind fills with an image of her, half-naked, smiling up at me coquettishly from a bed of golden leaves in Stanshall Wood. Her lips stained purple from the blackberries we were determined to take home that year but, as always, couldn’t resist.
The click of the opening door. The squeak-squeak of rubber soles. The clomp-clomp of Hannah’s boots.
“No change, Mrs Salmond.”
Cally’s rubber feet retrace their steps. The door clicks shut. Hannah’s breath and cold lips on my cheek, as soft and fleeting as a snowflake. The scrape of chair legs. Hannah’s sigh as she sits down.
Shuff shuff. Bleep bleep. Beyond that, on the fringes of my small dark world, the sounds of a busy hospital. So near and yet so far. No way of communicating that I’m here. All I have is my sense of hearing, and what use is that?
“Merry Christmas, Michael.”
Silence. Then Hannah sucks in a shuddering sob. “Though it’s not very sodding merry, is it.” She begins to weep. “I can’t do this anymore, I can’t, I can’t.”
The scrape of chair legs, the crack of plastic on floor as the chair tips over. Hannah’s running footsteps and the crashing door.
Please, God, please. If you can’t repair my body, please just let me die.
The click of the opening door. The squeak-squeak of rubber soles. The almost imperceptible snick-snick of Hannah’s trainers. A pause in which I hear… nothing. Then Cally’s rubber feet retrace their steps. The door clicks shut.
Something’s wrong. I know it. I hear it in Hannah’s breathing as she nears the bed. Quick and shallow.
She didn’t visit for almost a fortnight after Christmas, then she was back every day and as determined as before.
My Hannah, my beautiful Hannah. How can you bear it? I wouldn’t have blamed you if you’d chosen to stay away.
A creak, and I realise Hannah is sitting on my bed. More movement, and I sense her body stretching out beside me.
“It’s spring, Michael.” Hannah’s voice is so low I barely hear it over the sounds of the machines. “It’s a lovely day. The daffodils are out, and the magnolia looks like a pink cloud hanging above the lawn. Blackbirds are nesting in the ivy again. There’s new life everywhere.” She begins to cry. “Everywhere but here.” Her hot tears fall on my cheek as she holds me close.
Oh Hannah.
Her sobbing eventually subsides and we lie together for a long time.
She stirs, and warm breath and trembling lips brush against my cheek like soft down. “You’ll never know how hard it was. They wanted me to do it a long time ago, but I kept hoping and hoping that one day you’d wake up. But it’s never going to happen.”
Another kiss. A long, lingering kiss. “I love you, Michael. I’ll always love you.”
More tears I barely feel this time as the awful realisation strikes, like a kick to the solar plexus.
Hannah moves off the bed. “Goodbye, Michael,” she whispers.
No, Hannah, no! I’m here! For God’s sake, I’m in here!
The click of the closing door, and Hannah’s stumbling feet out in the corridor.
Hannah! Nooo!
The click of the opening door. Several pairs of rubber feet. The door clicks shut.
“All right, people.” The doctor’s subdued voice. “You know what we have to do. Are you ready?”
No! Nononooo!
Shuffling feet. A clearing throat. Cally’s sob beside me.
No! For pity’s sake, no! I’m here I’m here I’m here!
Cally’s sharp intake of breath. “His eyelid. His left eyelid. Look!”
My left eyelid…? I concentrate hard. It twitches, like a closed-eye blink. I do it again.
“Might not mean anything, but let’s see.”
A hand grasps my wrist and lifts my arm off the bed. The hand lets go. My useless limb drops back to the sheet with a thud.
Oh God, please don’t stop there! I make my eyelid twitch again.
“Hmmm.” The doctor, so close his breath tickles my chin. “Michael, if you hear me, move your eyelid twice for yes.”
Blink blink.
“Hells bells.” A voice I don’t recognise.
“Steady. We need more. Michael, I’m going to ask some questions. Blink twice for yes, once for no. Is your wife’s name Heather?”
Blink.
“Hannah?”
Blink blink.
“Are you Michael Fish?”
Ho, ho. A comedian. Blink.
“Michael Salmond?”
Blink blink.
“Locked-in Syndrome.” His voice shakes with suppressed excitement. “Brain stem damage resulting in complete paralysis of every muscle except those which operate the eyes. All thought processes remain intact. I’ve read of it but it’s so rare I never thought I’d see a case.”
Locked-in Syndrome. It sounds exactly right. I have no idea what my recovery chances are, but right now, for the first time since waking up, I’m just happy, deliriously happy, to be alive.
“Even rarer,” continues the doctor pensively, “is that eye muscle function can also be impaired. Which means that Michael could have been conscious for a long time.”
Yes indeed. I prepare for a double blink, but a sudden thought stops me. A thought which appears to be troubling other minds too. The silence speaks volumes.
“Michael.” A pause. “Do you know that your wife…” The doctor falters, struggles to find the right words. A deep breath, then: “Are you aware that your wife was here a short time ago? Once for no, twice for yes.”
How will Hannah cope if she knows I know…?
“Michael?”
My poor Hannah. She’s been through enough.
Blink.
A collective sigh of relief.
“Right, people. I think it’s time we informed Mrs Salmond that her husband is no longer comatose and requests her presence. What say you, Michael?”
Blink blink.
©Rosemarie Rose
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