F Paul Wilson - Novel 05 (8 page)

 
          
...
a hospital bed.

 
          
And
in that bed, Sam.

 
          
Julie
felt her breath catch at the sight of her.

 
          
Pale,
so pale that if the sheets weren't pink she'd be invisible. She lay flat on
her back. One of the aides had braided her long blond hair so that a girlish
pigtail hung over each shoulder. It made Sam look even more vulnerable.

 
          
Her
arms lay at her sides atop the sheet that had been folded back at the level of
her breasts and snugged around her. She might have been Sleeping Beauty
—
except for the feeding tube, and the catheter bag, and the
IV.

 
          
Suddenly
Julie was afraid. Of what, she couldn't say. She was just
—

 
          
Oh,
Sam
—
what have they done to you?

 
          
Startled,
Julie stiffened. Where'd that come from? Almost as if the thought had leaped
between them. Why think anything had been done to Sam? No evidence of trauma,
no attempted rape, no assault, nothing... yet.

 
          
She
shook off the strange feeling. If anything, Sam had probably done something to
herself.

 
          
Still,
Julie felt a little weak. The extra wine and too little sleep didn't help. She
would have loved to sink into one of the chairs, but she had to touch Sam,
convince herself that she was real, that she was alive, that this was really
her sister.

 
          
She
reached out and laid her fingers on Sam's arm. The skin was cool, smooth, soft,
coated with a fine film of moisturizing lotion. She knew that the nursing staff
would be bathing her, turning her on her side, making sure her inert body
didn't develop bedsores.

           
And if Sam didn't come out of her
coma, that kind of care would go on forever, until Sleeping Beauty slowly
turned into an old hag.

 
          
She
moved closer to her sister.

 
          
"Sam?"
Absurd as it was, she could not resist the urge to shake her arm, the feeling
that this was all it would take to make Sam open her eyes. "Sam, it's
Julie. Wake up."

 
          
No
response, of course. Julie leaned over Sam and lifted one of Sam's eyelids. The
pale blue iris tightened around the pupil in response to the morning light. She
lifted the other lid. The pupil there was already constricted.

 
          
"Her..."
Julie's voice caught an instant in her throat. "Her third nerve seems
okay."

 
          
"All
the cranial nerves are intact," Eathan said. "All the reflexes
—
corneal, deep tendon, abdominal, Babinski
—
intact as well. It's given me some ... hope."

 
          
"Are
her medical records here?"

 
          
"Yes.
I had them sent along when she was moved from the
Paris
hospital."

 
          
"Can
I see them?"

 
          
"Of
course, but Julie
—
you can do that later."
She felt Eathan's hand rest gently on her shoulder. "You look done in.
I'll get you over to the inn, and after you've had some rest you can spend all
the time you want with them. And believe me, you'll need time. There's quite a
stack."

 
          
Julie
knew nothing short of some IV diazepam was going to let her sleep now, and
maybe not even that.

 
          
"Just
a quick look, okay? Just to get some sort of handle on theinn,
^a

 
          
"Okay.
I understand. I'll have the nurse bring them in." He squeezed her
shoulder. "I'm so glad you're here."

3

 
          
They
went over the records together. Julie began with the EEGs, the electrical
signature of the brain. She found half a dozen fat, fan-folded recordings in
the pile. She spread out the long pink-and-white-gridded sheets on the floor of
Sam's room and crouched over them, scanning them blip by blue blip.

 
          
She
knew she wasn't a physician, didn't want to pretend to be. But she did know the
human nervous system more extensively and intimately than most M.D.s, so that
was where she focused her attention.

 
          
"Damn!"
she said an hour or so later as she straightened and stretched her cramping
back. "They're all normal."

 
          
"I
could have told you that," Eathan said. "Dr. Elliot went over them
too."

 
          
"I
know. But nobody's perfect. He might have missed something."

 
          
But
he hadn't. The overall pattern in all the EEGs was normal
—
eight- to thirteen-Hertz activity. She could see that from
across the room. What she'd been looking for were bilateral, synchronous,
paroxysmal bursts of slow waves in the one- to three-Hertz range
—
a sure sign of metabolic disease, or a toxin, or a drug
effect. She'd also been looking for unilateral slow activity that might
indicate a structural lesion.

 
          
Nothing.

 
          
Normal
eight- to thirteen-Hertz all the way.

 
          
Julie
stared at Eathan, sitting across the room with a pile of reports on his lap,
watching her.

 
          
"This
doesn't make sense," she said.

 
          
"Exactly
what Dr. Elliot said. He was very intrigued. In fact, he wants to come back and
examine her again."

 
          
"I
can understand that. And he's ruled out alpha coma and locked-in syndrome, 1
gather?"

 
          
Eathan
nodded. "He says it must be psychogenic."

 
          
"But
I don't get it. Catatonics are awake. Their eyes are open. They sit up. They
chew and swallow...."

 
          
Eathan
said, "I see here in one of Dr. Elliot's notes that he calls it 'catatonic
coma.' Coma is described as unarousable un-responsiveness, and Sam certainly
meets that criterion, yet she's neurologically perfect, which she shouldn't be.
He says he's never seen anything like it. Which is why he's willing to fly back
from
London
to reexamine her if she
doesn't show any changes by next week."

 
          
Julie
rose and approached the bed again. She stared down at her sister. Her MRI and
spinal tap were normal
—
no stroke, no tumor, no
hemorrhage, no damage, no toxins. Her cortex
and
brain stem were both
functioning absolutely perfectly.

 
          
Sam,
Sam, she thought. Always an enigma
—
even
when
you're unconscious.

 
          
She
felt baffled and helpless. Neither was a comfortable
fit.

 
          
"What
if we
—
?"

 
          
"Pardon?"

 
          
She
turned and saw a middle-aged woman in white. Her name tag said ELAINE MONCEAU.

 
          
"Oui?"
said Eathan.

 
          
"Monsieur,
ft me faut manipider demoiselle."

 
          
Eathan
said,
"Ce n'est pas possible d'attendre quelques minutes?"

 
          
The
woman obviously needed to check Sam. Julie's French was atrophied from long
disuse, but she managed to grasp
that
Elaine was a physical therapist
and was here to give Sam her daily massage and range-of-motion exercises.

 
          
"Let's
leave her to her work," Julie said, stooping to refold the EEGs. When ail
the reports were back in their respective folders, she picked up an armful.

 
          
"Can
we take these back to the inn?"

 
          
Eathan
hesitated. "They probably want to keep them here, but I'll see what I can
do."

 
          
Ten
minutes and a few release forms later, they were driving away with all Sam's
records in the trunk.

4

 
          
The
inn, Le Bois Farrand, a two-story stucco affair with a slate roof and vines
climbing the walls, managed to be luxurious while retaining a quaint country
charm.

 
          
Like
an inn out of a storybook, Julie thought.

 
          
Eathan
had reserved her a bright, airy room with a four-poster bed and an enormous down
comforter. She went to the pair of French doors
—
of
course
—
that opened onto a small balcony
and stared out at the poplar-lined road that led to the inn.

 
          
The
bed looked inviting but, tired as she was, Julie felt too wired to sleep.
Besides, if she could last until after dinner, she could crash for the night
and be a good way toward resetting her body's clock to Greenwich Mean Time.

 
          
She
wondered how things were going back in
New York
, then realized it wasn't
even dawn there yet. She tried not to think about the Bruchmeyer grant. Sam's
mysterious coma was the important thing here. Julie was baffled and challenged
by the puzzle. She needed more pieces, and she thought she knew a good place to
look.

 
          
She
crossed the hall and knocked on Eathan's door. He appeared in shirtsleeves
with a towel in his hand. His beard was damp. For a moment he looked oddly
different with his beard matted to his cheek. Almost like the old pictures of
her father.

 
          
He
blotted droplets of water from his face. "Something wrong?"

 
          
"I'd
like to go into
Paris
."

 
          
"Oh,
Julie, come on. You're not too tired?"

 
          
"No.
I'll do better if I try to reset my clock in one day. But I'm too bleary-eyed
to read any more medical reports."

 
          
His
smile was sympathetic. "I understand. Anyplace special you want to
go?"

 
          
She
chewed her lip.

 
          
"Sam's
apartment. Do you have the address?"

 
          
Marcel
Proust: "The bonds that unite another person to our-self exist only in our
mind. Memory as it grows fainter relaxes them. . . ."

 
          
—
Random notes: Julia Gordon

 
          
Uncle
Eathan had insisted on driving her himself. The
Latin Quarter
was not the safest section
of the city, he'd said. And besides, he'd met Sam's landlady a number of times
already, Julie would have an easier time getting in if he was with her.

 
          
Julie
hadn't argued. Actually she was glad to have someone familiar with the
territory along.

 
          
So
now they were fighting the
midday
traffic along the busy
boulevard that followed the serpentine path of the
Seine
. And despite everything,
Julie had to admire the beauty of
Paris
. The
bateaux mouches,
the
sight-seeing boats, were already ferrying tourists up and down the river, while
the dozens of bridges that spanned the murky river were filled with Parisians
hustling to and fro, moving urgently from Left Bank to Right, or Right to Left.

           
"A lot's changed since you've
been here."

 
          
"Yes,
when did they stick that glass pyramid in front of the Louvre?"

 
          
"Don't
like it? A lot of Parisians consider it an eyesore. Your sister loved it."

 
          
"That
figures."

 
          
They
took a curve and ahead Julie spotted Notre Dame and the lie de la Cite. On her
first visit, years ago, she had gone to the top of the cathedral and stood by
the gargoyles who leered out at the city. A young couple had asked her to take
their photograph, posed with a horned monster between them. Then they in turn
asked Julie if she wanted to be photographed.

 
          
The
idea seemed funny to Julie. By myself? With a monster?

 
          
She
shook her head.

 
          
"You
never liked
Paris
?" Eathan said.

 
          
"Oh,
it's beautiful enough. 1 guess I found the mood, the air of the place too
frivolous. And maybe because
Paris
was always Sam's
city."

 
          
She
looked over to see whether she'd offended Eathan, but he showed no reaction.

 
          
He
made a right and Julie saw that they were on the Boulevard Saint-Germain. In a
few minutes, they passed the entrance to the giant Jardin du Luxembourg.

 
          
"Ever
been in there?"

 
          
"No.
Too busy when 1 came for that conference."

 
          
"You
should take some time
—
"

 
          
"And
smell the roses?"

 
          
Eathan
laughed. "Your sister's studio is just off the Boulevard Saint-Michel, the
'boul
Mich.
' It's a lot like your New
York SoHo, I imagine."

 
          
Eathan
turned down a narrow
rue,
passing a street cleaner in a green uniform
wiping the pavement with a mop. Through her open window, Julie sniffed the
pungent smell of the wet cobblestones.

 
          
The
smells and sights of
Paris
...

 
          
Now
it felt exactly as she remembered it from her year at the Institut de Science.
That was the nice thing about European cities
—
you
could return after years of absence and, outside of some new monstrosity
erected by a minister of "culture," everything would be pretty much
as you left it.

           
The closer to Sam's studio, the
quieter Eathan got. Then
—

 
          
"When
do you think it began to go wrong for Samanthar Eathan said.

 
          
"Began?
I can't remember when she was ever
rigfit."

 
          
"You're
too hard on her. Always have been."

 
          
Here
we go again, she thought. The old
why-can't'you'twO' be-friends
routine.
Why couldn't he ever bring himself to blame Sam?

 
          
You've
always been too damn
easy
on her, she wanted to say, but bit it back.
She'd noticed new worry lines on Eathan's face. Maybe he was already blaming
himself.

 
          
"Maybe
you're right," she said, not believing it. "But she was always so
emotional about everything, always frightened of something. As she got older,
she changed, almost seemed to
embrace
anything dangerous, but when we
were kids, there was
always
something under her bed. Even Bugs Bunny
cartoons scared her. And remember that scene in Harrods when we were Christmas shopping?
How old were we then? Ten?"

 
          
"I
believe so. But do you remember what set her off?"

 
          
"No."

 
          
"It
was by the Christmas village Harrods had constructed on the children's floor.
You were standing right beside her. Are you sure you don't remember?"

 
          
Julie
thought back. They'd been leaning over the railing, watching the miniature
train chug through the snow-covered English village that had been rendered in
amazing detail, even down to the smoke puffing from the tiny chimneys. Suddenly
Sam had stiffened beside her and begun screaming at the top of her lungs as if
terrified for her life.

 
          
"I
don't think I ever knew what set her off. She just went hysterical for no
reason. I was used to it by then."

 
          
"I
found out," Eathan said. "Later. She told her therapist at that time
that she'd seen one of the village houses on fire and it had frightened
her."

 
          
"There
was no house on fire," Julie said. "I was there. I know I'd have
noticed that."

 
          
"I
went back and checked, and you're right. There was no little house on fire. But
I did notice that the chimney on one of the models was blocked, and the smoke
that was supposed to be going up the chimney was coming out the windows instead,
making it look as if the little house was on fire."

 
          
"Right.
I remember that now. And I remember thinking it was strange looking."

 
          
Another
turn onto an even narrower road. They passed a shop with a giant ceramic
horsehead outside. For lovers of "la viande du cheval." Julie didn't
eat much red meat, and the thought of eating Trigger...

 
          
"It
didn't upset you? Didn't remind you of another fire?"

 
          
"Not
at all. It looked like a clogged chimney and that was that."

 
          
Halfway
down the block there was a cafe tabac, and a few rumpled, leathery-skinned
workers
—
Algerian, maybe
—
sat outside, smoking cigarettes, as if waiting for a
parade.

 
          
"So
you don't think about that fire?" He was staring at her intently.
"Ever?"

 
          
"When
someone mentions it, yes. Witnessing that fire was a terrible thing, but it was
twenty-three years ago. I wish it hadn't happened, but it did. And it's over.
That was then, this is now. You keep going."

 
          
Eathan
stopped at the comer. A woman led her toddler across the street. In her free
hand she carried a three-foot-long baguette, diapered around its middle with a
single sheet of white paper. The bread, Julie had forgotten the bread, baked
fresh three or four times a day. Her mouth watered.

 
          
"You're
very lucky to be able to put it in perspective like that. Sam never could put
it behind her. That was her problem. All the therapists, the special schools,
nothing could heal the terrible wounds of that night. I kept trying to get you
two to talk about it. Wounds need air to heal. Lock them up and they only
fester."

 
          
Julie
remembered how Eathan would sit them down at regular intervals and make them
talk about the night of the fire, all the details they could remember.
"Ventilate," he'd say. "Get it out. Let it go." It had
worked for her, she supposed, but obviously not for Sam.

 
          
"If
Sam had only had a friend to confide in," he said
—
pointedly, she thought.

 
          
Julie
was not going to let him start this.

 
          
"Her
'friend' would have had to be as reckless as Sam. Don't forget all the drinking
and drugs. How many schools kicked
her
out for violent behavior? Three,
wasn't it? I don't see how
you
can blame the fire or lack of a 'friend.'
None of that ever happened to me. We're twins. We witnessed the same horrific
tragedy. Could it have affected us so differently?"

 
          
Eathan
nodded as they kept on along the small
rue..
"You're two different
people. Your rather was a scientist, a chemist; your mother was artsy, in a
way. You and Sam have the
same
genotype, but obviously you express those
genes differently. You've always been the rational one, steady as a rock, while
Samantha took everything to heart and seemed bent on self-destruction. I wish
you could have ..."

 
          
"What?"

 
          
"Nothing."

 
          
"Watched
over her? Looked out for her? I was growing up too, you know. And not having
such an easy time myself."

 
          
Juiie
didn't like thinking of her adolescent years, being considered one of the
class nerds because of her grades, never having more than one friend, always
feeling different, always "out" with the "in" crowd. She
liked to think she'd put all that pain behind her.

 
          
"I
know," Eathan said. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have said that. I know
you had problems too. But somehow I always knew you'd pull through. Sam... I
doubt she'd have made it even this far if not for her art. I think that's the
only thing that saved her from self-destructing before she got out of her
teens."

 
          
Sam's
art. Julie had to admit she'd had a real talent for it since day one. She began
painting seriously in secondary school and whenever the class would put on an
art show, Sam's display would always draw the most attention. Nobody would be
standing too close, of course. More like a crowd around an accident. The
violent, disturbing images that ran through her paintings fascinated as much as
they repelled.

 
          
She
dabbled in everything "artistic," but painting seemed to be her real
love. So much so that she enrolled in a
London
art school instead of a
university, but just as she was beginning to gain some recognition
—
an art columnist had given her favorable mention in the
Times
—
she dropped out and fled to the Continent.

 
          
Self-sabotage,
another of Sam's fortes.