“He’s here,” he whispered.
“What’s that? Who’s here?”
But Zack had slipped back into sleep.
17
At eight the next morning, Nurse Heather came into Zack’s room. “Hey, Zack, how you doing?”
“Okay.”
“You ready for company?” Heather was beaming. “Your mother’s here to see you.”
Several hours had passed since Zack had woken up. He felt more centered and less fatigued. They had kept him awake by plying him with questions to assess his cognitive functions. It took a while to sink in that he had been in a coma for twelve weeks—that he had missed spring break and March madness, not to mention nearly three months’ work on his thesis, which had been due April 1. (He’d have to get an extension.) What amazed him was how in so short a time he had lost nearly twenty pounds. More startling was how weak he was. Lifting his arms took effort. But the nurses said that was expected, and because he was young he’d be back to normal after a few weeks of physical therapy.
Nurse Heather rolled up the bed slightly and gave him a few sips of orange juice. In a day or so they would remove the G-tube so he could eat normally, beginning with soft foods and milkshakes.
“We’ll keep it short so you won’t be too taxed. Ready?”
He nodded. “Send her in,” he said, a little anxious at seeing his mother because she was an emotional woman.
Heather left, and a few moments later she returned with Zack’s mother. As she entered, his first thought was that she had lost weight. She was dressed in pale green slacks and a white sweater and a necklace he had given her last Christmas. She rarely wore makeup, but today she did. “Hi,” he said through a raw windpipe.
For a moment she stood at the doorway, frozen. Although she had probably kept steadfast vigil at his bedside, he imagined how she saw him—gaunt, ashen, hair roughly chopped, scabs, scars, his arms like broomsticks. He smiled as best he could and raised his hand toward her. She burst into tears and came to him, taking his hand. He was weak but did his best to give her fingers a squeeze.
Sobbing and trying to smile, she said, “Thank goodness. I love you,” she whispered.
“Love you, too.” His voice was hoarse.
The nurse helped her settle into a chair by his side. She clutched his hand as she tried to compose herself, wiping her face with tissues.
He knew that she felt some degree of guilt—and not just the residue of her Roman Catholic upbringing, something she carried like a low-grade fever. Or a maternal thing for not protecting him better. It was deeper layered. For some ineffable reason, she believed that Zack had blamed her for Nick’s abandonment. It was totally irrational. Jake’s death had caused that, not Maggie.
She took Zack’s hand, now crying for joy.
“Menino’s revenge.”
“What?”
“The mayor. They tell me I hit a pothole.”
When she regained control, she said, “You shouldn’t have been riding your bike so late. And without a helmet.”
“Mom, I live only a few blocks away. I just didn’t see the hole.”
She kissed his forehead. “Thank goodness you’re okay.”
“But I got a great sleep.”
“Yeah, for eighty-six days.”
“But who counts?” She leaned over and kissed his cheek and forehead. And he could feel the press of tears behind his own eyes.
When she settled in the chair again, she said, “Good news. Your thesis adviser gave you a six-month extension. So the pressure is off. Isn’t that great?”
“That means I get my degree in January. No June graduation.”
“We can live with that.” She smiled and kissed him again.
“I think I heard you talking to me while I was asleep.”
“You did?”
“You kept telling me to open my eyes. But every time I did, I got sand in them. I think you also asked me to clean up my room and take the trash out.”
She laughed and squeezed his hand.
He could feel the warmth of her grip. It felt good. It was a relief to see her laugh again. She must have been gnarled with fear and grief these past three months. As he lay there, he resolved that once he got out he’d spend more time with her, get closer, do more to make her life better. She had suffered too much in the last ten years.
“I also had dreams of Dad.” As he’d feared, the mere mention of him caused her smile to sag.
“Dreams? What kind of dreams?”
“Mostly from Sagamore Beach, I think.”
Maggie nodded, trying to appear interested.
“It felt so real, even the heavy fog. I’m surprised the bed isn’t all wet.”
She didn’t say anything but looked at the IV connection on the back of his hand.
“I think Dad was in it, but I couldn’t see him, just sensed he was there. It was weird.”
“Well, you were in a coma.”
She said nothing else but glanced away, probably thinking how characteristic that was of Nick—barely there. She never forgave him for leaving them, then dying, and now Zack was having dreams of him. And he knew she resented that. He had abandoned her at her lowest. He had abandoned him at his neediest. Yet Zack remembered him as a quiet, private man who was also warm and loving. He never missed one of Zack’s soccer matches or Jake’s Little League games. And he’d cheer with wild enthusiasm and pride in his boys.
But Jake’s death changed him profoundly, sucking the vitality from his soul, leaving him a husk of his former self, barely able to communicate. By the time he and Maggie got divorced, his depression had rendered him insubstantial. He had moved to an apartment in Waltham to be closer to the engineering firm where he worked. That was when Zack was in high school and caught up with a heavy college prep load. Then Nick announced he had quit his job to become a lay monk in the Berkshires, making his retreat permanent. And for all practical purposes, Zack’s father had died.
On some basic level, Zack still loved him—or some former him. But he could hardly recall what he had looked like. He never told his mother, but during his school years, Zack had made up tales about him—cool things like his traveling all over the world as a professional photographer, scuba diving in Australia and Papua New Guinea. He’d even once claimed that his father had disappeared trying to land in a storm in Tonga. Those ended by the time Zack entered college. By then his father had died for real. And the only sign that he had once partaken in his life were a few photos and the urn on the fireplace mantel.
“They’ll probably tell you, but when you woke up you called for him.”
“I did?” Zack was surprised, though he could see she was flushed with resentment.
“You also were reciting something the other day while you were under.”
“Reciting something?”
“A prayer in Aramaic.”
“Aramaic? You’ve got to be kidding.”
“Do you know any Aramaic?”
“No, and how would I? Isn’t that a dead language?”
She removed her BlackBerry from her handbag, hit a few keys, then turned the screen toward him. There he was lying in a bed, his eyes closed, but moving beneath the lids. His lips were glistening with some hydrating balm, and in a strange guttural voice he muttered something totally unintelligible but what sounded like actual language from the rhythm and pattern. The recording lasted for maybe a minute, then he ceased muttering and resumed his coma state as if nothing had happened. “I don’t know what that is. That’s not even my voice.”
“I know. Which makes it even weirder. But a language expert confirmed you were speaking Aramaic. Actually, the Lord’s Prayer. Maybe you memorized it for a paper or something?”
“I’d remember that. And what kind of course would that be?” Suddenly he felt overwhelmingly tired.
“Maybe your father taught it to you as a child.”