Began immediate left-handed exploration to determine quality, extent of damages. Was dismayed to learn attire consisted of overlarge (knee-length) tee shirt — and diaper…! Complete with safety pins. And, speaking as expert baby-sitter, quite professionally executed. (Strategically located slit in crotch of mortifying garment admitted [as suspected] Foley catheter.)
Further exploration revealed substantially absent eyebrows, lashes; head hair appreciably shorter in spots than remembered it. Had obviously been brushed out, breaking off scorched, shriveled ends -
Oh! Memory returned in bewildering rush. Bringing with it sudden dread, rampant curiosity: Where was Terry? What about kid? What happened? More particularly, who happened it?
Reasonable questions, to be sure. When last participated in events, score was Candy zero, Grim Reaper nine — in ten-point match. Lethal probabilities abounded; situation, without exaggeration, dire.
Known on-site cast included Terry; concussed kid (with stiff leg, profound blood loss, stitches all over hide); and, of course, Yours Truly — plucky neighborhood zombie. Terry didn’t get us out of fix; get me cleaned up, plugged in, plumbed, drained. I sure didn’t — and kid was…
No! Enough… Without facts, speculation worse than nonproductive; downright maddening…!
Had to find out for self — couldn’t lie quietly in bed, waiting for someone (whomever!) to walk in, in own good time, and fill in blanks (selectively — telling patient “only what’s good for her”). Had to know — now…!
Doggedly returned to self-examination. Found tender areas of pinkish skin on forehead, hands, ankles — another few seconds and would have been serious burns. Determined all muscles, while weak, again responded to wishes. (Almost unbearably relieved: Daddy had recited cases where muscle overuse resulted in permanent burnout.)
Concluded, at length, was sound enough to dispense with life-support toys; return to transacting personal business personally. Could eat faster, absorb protein, calories more efficiently orally than through tube (certainly enjoy it more). Further, examination demonstrated no clinical evidence of dehydration; no point, then, to retaining I.V. And could damn well go potty myself!
Okay, no reason couldn’t get up — just matter of unplugging tubes. (Straightforward-sounding, simple statement of intent: easy to say.)
Effectuation, however, less so. Sensations accompanying do-it-yourself nasogastric tube removal unlikely to find place in catalog of experiences without which life is not complete. Same for catheter. Neither truly painful coming out. Actually. Exactly. Quite. But felt horrid…
I.V., on other hand, did hurt. But over quickly; slight bleeding stopped immediately with momentary pressure.
Then addressed question of standing. Knew was weak, but fairly certain could manage. With care, slowly, taking very short steps.
Question of very short steps, however, proved premature. Spent appreciable interval sitting on edge of bed, head between knees, waiting for room to stabilize. Which did, eventually.
Whereupon, gingerly stood, paused briefly to verify balance in working order; then employed selfsame care, very short steps, to navigate slowly to door.
Hall in which found self was higher-ceilinged, wider than those in houses which constituted experience during formative years. Decor, too, beyond what have come to recognize as norm.
Piano now into first measures of unfamiliar solo transcription of Wagner’s Rienzi overture. Stood briefly, listened.
(Daddy included in shelter collection essentially entire Andre Perrault international catalog; record collection upstairs in house almost equaled. Have myself spent important fraction of short life exposed to, absorbing, enjoying classical music. Plus Daddy once took me to Horowitz concert in Chicago, where, in three too-short hours, artist demonstrated all he’d learned about playing piano over perhaps 70-odd years of training, practice, dedication. Have, despite youth, acquired discerning ear.)
This pianist good. Possibly even that good. But didn’t recognize touch. Wondered who might be; when recording made.
Followed music down hall to balcony — from either end of which descended wide, sweeping staircase (of sort on which Cinderella lost slipper), terminating in foyer into which Daddy’s whole house would fit without crowding (if tucked to side to miss chandelier).
Glided down nearer staircase, feeling like figure in dream. Music coming from partially open door on far side of foyer. Crossed room, silently pushed door open.
Terry’s tee stand stood next to gleaming ebony concert grand at center of library/study whose shelves held books in numbers rivaling perhaps even Daddy’s shelter library — and all hardbacks, most leather. Harebrained sibling himself (alive!) relaxed on one foot, raptly watching, listening as my erstwhile patient, leg bandaged but now unsplinted, played and music flowed through room, filling heart, crumbling barriers behind which had thought those emotions safely locked away forever.
Moved silently into room; held out arm. Twin’s eyes snapped wide; almost leaped in eagerness to swarm aboard. Settled in chair just behind, to side of oblivious musician. Terry discharged immediate hysterical gladness over reunion through series of head dives, cheek rubs; then snuggled down in lap, pressed close, sighed, closed eyes. Held my baby brother tight in arms.
And, soundlessly, cried. Cried for Momma, for Daddy; for unknown, unremembered flesh-and-blood parents; for Teacher; for all my friends; for acquaintances; for whole world of strangers — cried for all dead.
Cried for Terry, miraculously alive when should have burned to death. Cried for boy — another person! — incredibly still alive in spite of crash, terrible wounds, my bumbling treatment, fire — sitting now at piano, playing as composer only might have dared to dream.
Cried for me — for grief, for relief, for joy.
Cried for past. Cried for future. Cried for hope.
Cried while boy finished Rienzi, swept into Rachmaninoff, Chopin, Brahms, many others; all from memory, most full orchestral works somehow transcribed for piano alone; all played as if keyboard itself were come to life, complete with soul demanding outlet, expression.
Boy finished Berlioz’s Symphonie Fantastique with marvelously cacaphonic climax whose violence quite made up for missing orchestra; tiptoed with startling gentleness into Pachelbel’s Canon in D. And into resultant sweet tranquility he spoke; voice low, tightly controlled: “I thought you were dead.”
Didn’t reply — correction: Couldn’t.
“Terry woke me trying to rouse you — he and I have become friends waiting for you, and I’ve had time to read your journal. He was down from his stand, scrambling all over you, flapping his wings, pulling at you desperately, nuzzling you, screaming at you. That’s what woke me up.”
Lapsed into silence for long moments, music flowing without pause. “The whole block next to us was in flames. The heat was incredible and wreckage was coming down all around us. The street was filling up with burning debris and the building on the other side was starting to go as well — it looked like something out of an old movie of London during the Blitz.”
Again fell silent, moving bandaged leg restively, but music never hesitated. “I had a hell of a time getting into the driver’s seat with my leg in that splint, not to mention maneuvering the I.V. hose and pouch; and I knew I’d better leave it in place — I was weak as a kitten, and the blood all over the place made it obvious why. Finally I hung the I.V. pouch on the rear-view mirror, stuck the leg out the window, and used my right leg to drive. It wasn’t easy, shifting an unfamiliar transmission without using the clutch. I don’t think I hurt it.