I don’t try to talk sense into him, because I know exactly how he feels. We sip our coffee quietly and watch the minutes tick by on the wall clock. I get up and walk over to the window. The view is amazing from way up here; you can see the whole city. I wonder how long it’s going to be before Rayne will be able to appreciate it.
“Cole!” Rayne’s mom says, walking into the waiting room. Her hair is wild, with only a few strands still contained in their original ponytail. “What are you doing here so early?”
“I couldn’t sleep. How is she?”
She sighs. “Stable, finally. They had to take her off the ventilator and bag her twice during the night.” Her eyes fill with tears. “I thought we were going to lose her.”
I wrap my arms around her neck and she hugs me back. After taking a deep breath, she continues. “She’s in a coma right now. Unresponsive, but they still don’t know why. They’re going to wait until later this morning and then take her down for a CAT scan as long as she stays stable.” She looks at Peter. “Do you want to see her?”
He sits up. “Of course.”
Rayne’s mom goes to sit next to him. “It’s not easy. She barely looks like herself, and there are tubes everywhere. But there can be two at a time in the room with her. Do you want me to go with you?”
Peter looks up at me. “Take Cole first. She’s Rayne’s best friend.”
I shake my head. “No way. You’ve been here all night. You go now, I’ll go after.” I don’t say so, but I need a little more time to get myself together before I can face her.
He stands up, his legs a little shaky. “If you’re sure.” He rubs his hands over the front of his jeans, and I can tell he’s nervous too.
“I’ll be right here.” I take his still-warm seat, feeling like the job of holding up hope has now been transferred to me. They’re only in there for about ten minutes, but it feels like hours before they come back to the waiting room, Peter wiping tears away with the sleeve of his jacket. Rayne’s mom has a hand on his shoulder. “It’s going to be okay. You were great.”
He looks stricken as he takes a seat next to me. He nods. “You should go. It’s hard, but she needs us more than ever.” Peter takes a deep breath and seems calmer.
“Are you sure you want to?” Rayne’s mom asks.
“I’m sure,” I say, following her into the hallway. “They don’t have any idea what’s wrong?” I ask, as we reach the double doors.
She shakes her head sadly. “Not really. They ruled out meningitis last night, which is a relief. As far as they can tell, something neurological is causing her organs to fail one by one. Her oxygen levels were rough all night, and now her kidney function looks compromised.” She gives me an encouraging squeeze. “But they’ll figure it out, I’m sure of it. And as soon as they do, we’ll know how to treat her.”
Even as the words come out of her mouth, I know she doesn’t fully believe that. She’s worried that the doctors won’t find the cause of the trouble in time. And I don’t blame her.
“We need to wash our hands at the sink right outside the door,” she says as we approach the nurse’s station. “And then use the hand sanitizer that’s just on the other side. They’re really worried about infection in here.”
We’re buzzed through the heavy double doors, and it’s like entering another world, dim and quiet except for the beeping of machines and the whoosh of assorted ventilators. The nurses seem to walk on air as they check tubes and type on portable monitors.
“She’s down at the end,” Rayne’s mom whispers. We walk by several people lying in curtained beds, but I can’t bring myself to look at any of them. Instead, I focus on a clock that’s on the opposite wall, slowly ticking toward six a.m. “Here we are,” she says, still quiet but with a forced sense of levity. “Rayne,” she says to the figure on the bed. “Cole came by to see you, isn’t that nice?”
She leans over and whispers to me. “You can touch her, but just watch the machines.”
I nod, unable to trust my voice. The only thing recognizable about Rayne is her hair. Everything else looks alien. She’s lying flat on the mattress with a tube coming out of her mouth that’s hooked up to a big square machine right next to the bed; it makes a rhythmic pounding sound as it forces air into her lungs. There’s tape on her cheeks to hold the tube down, and more tape holding more tubes to the back of her hand. Someone pulled a blanket up to her chest, but wires and tubes snake out from under it to more machines on either side of her head and to IV bags that are hanging on a pole. There’s a plastic clip on her index finger with a red light on the end, and I notice that someone has taken off all of her blue nail polish, although her fingers still have a slightly bluish tint, as though they’re cold.
Rayne’s mom sees my glance. “They’re monitoring the color of her fingers,” she whispers. “She’s been having some circulation problems.” She looks on the other side of the curtain. “I’m going to go check with one of the nurses. I’ll be right back.”
Rayne’s mom walks away, and I know this might be my only chance. I take a deep breath and reach for Rayne’s lifeless hand, being careful not to disturb the monitor on her finger or the tubes that are stuck into the veins on the back of her hand. I direct my thoughts through my body and into hers, hoping that she’s with us enough to understand. It’s okay, Rayne. I’m here with you. Just show me what’s going on. I can help.
I grip her fingers lightly, but I don’t feel anything at all. Somewhere in the distance I can still hear the beeping of the monitor, so I squeeze my eyes shut tighter. I hold my breath as I wait, but I get no sensations.
I open my eyes again and look around the room. Through an opening in the curtain around the bed I can see Rayne’s mom still talking to the nurse. I watch the lines in the monitors go up and down in rhythm and look at Rayne lying so still on the bed—right here with us, but still so impossibly far away. I’m the only one who can reach her, and I’m doing a crappy job of it. Her mom and the nurse will be back soon; I’ve only got moments to get through to her.
Taking another deep breath, I try to clear everything else away. In my mind I can hear Janine telling me to relax and get out of my own way, so I close my eyes and focus on that, pushing my thoughts through my chest and down my arms to where my fingers are touching Rayne’s. I picture a channel opening between the two of us, just like Janine taught me.
In an instant, I’m bombarded by confusing images—children riding bareback, their long black hair flowing in the wind as they race along the base of a snow-covered mountain . . . a dance in a fancy drawing room where women in puffy, ornate gowns link arms with men in short pants and stockings as a small orchestra plays off to one side . . . hundreds of people in colorful clothes dancing barefoot on the muddy ground as a band plays loud rock music from a stage half a football field away. And then there’s pain. It’s only fleeting, like a radio station that’s not tuned correctly, but sputtering and intense. My skin feels like it’s on fire, and my fingers ache like someone’s squeezing them in a vise. I feel panic rising from somewhere deep inside, like being trapped underwater. I can see the surface and want more than anything to get there, but all I can do is sink farther toward the bottom.
Rayne’s mom puts one hand on my shoulder and I gasp, coming back to the present. “Go ahead, talk to her,” she says gently. “She’ll hear you.”
I watch Rayne’s face for any sign that I connected with her just now, that what I just experienced is what she’s seeing. I take her hand again, ready for more images and sensations, but all I feel is the cool dryness of her skin. I can’t control the connections. It’s more like they control me, and I feel weak and faint from the effort just now. “I’m here, Rayne,” I say softly, leaning in close. “Peter’s out in the other room just waiting for another chance to get in here and see you. We can’t get him to leave; he looks so scruffy and cute.”