Death Sleep

The Dream

The nightmare always began in cloudless darkness, and she was in a park somewhere, on a road, holding Jon before her, protecting him, and Alex came to stand in front of them both, acting as a human shield while Curtis, murder in his eyes, approached them slowly with the scimitar flashing in the lights from the car.

The car was behind him, and there were other people in this hot, humid night, a man on the grass who just watched the murder about to take place, and another man behind her.

The headlights of the car threw Curtis into sharp relief and made his weapon all that much more deadly. She held her breath, felt a sense of suffocation, and her heart raced. She could feel Jon trembling, agitated as he was. She was terrified, rooted to the spot. She wished it was all over, but Curtis moved with horrifying slowness, sure of himself.

Jon screamed, and then she screamed as Curtis lunged with the scimitar, and as the two men circled one another she became aware of a terrible racket, shrill cries and chatterings, as the night came deafeningly alive with strange, unearthly sounds.

The awful dream did not end so much as it was interrupted each time; sometimes by sunlight striking her eyes and waking her, or by the insistent raucous whine of the radio alarm, or by Curtis shaking her and telling her she was making terrible sounds and thrashing around in bed.

This morning she came out of it when the telephone rang.

Chapter 1

Elsie lay in a pool of sweat, trying to collect herself. It was still dark, and the nightmare clung to her even as the telephone rang shrilly again and again. She could see the flashing blade of the scimitar, the hate in Curtis’s eyes.

She heaved herself up on an elbow and came face to face with reality. It was probably the call she’d been expecting for weeks. As she’d predicted, when it came it would be at an ungodly hour. How long had she been asleep?

Without turning on a blinding light, she reached out a practiced arm, brought the phone to her, and said, Hello, steeling herself for the news of Curtis’s death and wondering how they would say it (Mrs. Sheridan, we regret to inform you...).

It was her mother. Elsie? She sat up. Maybe something had happened to her father. Elsie?

Yes. She turned on the light. It was 6:05.

Elsie, is anything wrong?

No. Only a nightmare. My usual. Curtis whacking us all up into little pieces. Is anything wrong there?

We’re in Santa Barbara.

She remembered then. Her mother and father, Lily and Robert Kemple, were visiting friends. But why was she calling so early? Mom, do you know what time it is?

You know your father. Once he wakes up he thinks everybody ought to be awake.

The nightmare retreated further. What’s going on?

We’re coming by. If it’s all right.

The hospital?

Yes. We’ll be there at eight-thirty. How’s Jon?

Fine. She yawned. Incredible. Those who face the sword yawn by the sword. It’s just as well you called. I’ve got to get him up.

So early?

She shifted so her feet dangled out of bed. He’s got to get to school an hour early. Then, because Lily would surely ask, she said, It’s detention. First time he’s had that. He was mortified.

What in the world did he do?

‘Creating a disturbance,’ the note said. It was a shoving match; Jon says. When he decided to shove back, Mrs. Fleischman nailed him.

Poor dear. All this must be hitting him pretty hard. Are you holding up?

As well as can be expected, as we say.

You sound tired.

I need my coffee.

Well, I’ll let you go.

By the time she’d had her shower it was light, and the shreds of the dream had completely dissipated. She got Jon up, and he was groggy. It was the hour, for Jon was usually pretty chipper at breakfast. She asked him what he had to do for detention, beside getting to school an hour early.

Nothing. Just sit in Mr. Crichton’s room.

She didn’t ask who Mr. Crichton was, watched him stir cereal chips and stare at them moodily. Just one day? He nodded. Tomorrow will be more normal, she assured herself.

Ordinarily she arrived at Westridge Medical Center at nine o’clock and sometimes had difficulty getting a parking space near the wide entrance, but this morning at eight o’clock, there were few cars around. It would be hectic inside, though, she knew, having been a part of it for so many years, before Curtis’s accident.

She went in, nodding to faces she knew, and took the elevator to the third floor and the ICU. Eyebrows went up a little. A little early for Mrs. Sheridan, isn’t it? Well, yes, it is; you see, it’s like this... But she was probably projecting. Some knew she and Curtis had a twelve-year-old son, but they would not care to hear about his detention. If he were conscious Curtis might care, though she wasn’t sure; he’d been so insular before the accident, for a good time before it.

Down the curving corridor, into 326, across the floor to the bed, and there he lay.

There was bloom in his cheeks.

She stood looking down at the inert body and wondered how this could be, this sudden flush of health.

It had been three weeks; three weeks of Curtis’s being tied up to tubes and the humming, hissing, clicking equipment.

Curtis Sheridan was in irreversible coma, and it was supposed to be downhill all the way to the end, and yet, as she stood there, Elsie had the eerie feeling that he might wake up any moment.

She tried to shake the thought. It was impossible, his waking up. As a nurse, she knew. Yet it nagged at her, pressed on her. If Curtis were to prove everybody wrong by regaining consciousness, in one of his fearsome rages he would tear out all that he was attached to, lash out at those who had dared put it there, and then go stomping off, snorting, disdainful of them all.

Holding her breath, she watched, but of course Curtis did absolutely nothing. His eyelids did not quiver. He lay where he was, some waxen, mirror image of her husband, a man in whom the fires had been banked for the night and would soon be going out altogether.

Shuddering, Elsie drew in a deep breath, then left the room to go wait for her parents.

It was the hour. Curtis usually didn’t get to her like that. No, it was the nightmare. It had been a long time since she’d dreamt it, the last time long before his accident, and this morning’s had been so real. She could recall the terror, the horror of it, and she shuddered again.

Get hold of yourself. She would. Everybody said she coped so well, but they couldn’t see inside where she knew she was a mess of frazzled ganglions.

Elsie’s parents did not get to the Intensive Care waiting room at eight-thirty as they were supposed to; as always, they were late. Lily and Robert Kemple lived in Festejo, a retirement community beside the San Diego freeway south of Los Angeles, and were off visiting friends more often than they were at home.

"How is he?" Lily asked, eyes wide with sympathy, arms outstretched to embrace Elsie as she came through the doorway. There was no escaping the arms. Her father rubbed his nose with his forefinger in some amusement as his eyes met Elsie’s during the obligatory squeeze.

The same. It became safe to disengage herself. She could not bring herself to say Curtis’s cheeks were pink. If you’d like to see him...

Lily considered it, then said with a shrug, If there’s no change.... Elsie couldn’t blame her. What do you say to a comatose man? Even if he is your daughter’s husband. Her mother was looking at her closely. You’re so pale. She took Elsie’s hand. Come and sit down, she said, forgetting that Elsie would be sitting in Curtis’s room for most of the day. They sat on one of the Naugahyde sofas. Have you been neglecting yourself? Her father began to go through the magazines on the hardwood rack.

I’m all right.

Lily’s eyes searched Elsie’s. How long has it been?

Three weeks.

Your voice sounds tired.

Well, it gets depressing.

Is there anything we can do?

There’s nothing anyone can do.

Lily put a hand on her arm. We’re so sorry.

Her father had been editor of an automotive house organ for many years and magazines held a fascination for him, but he abandoned those on the rack to come to sit on the arm of the chair next to the sofa. His eyes, Elsie saw, were still a clear bright blue, and they were able to see more than her mother’s. He said, In spite of everything, it’s not easy, is it, Kitten?

Elsie blinked at him. Her mother had always overlooked Curtis’s behavior, but not her father, and he went on, I think it would have been better if you had stood up to him, bluster for bluster, steam for steam.

Robert, Lily said sternly, I don’t think this is the time—

Elsie said, I don’t know. It was easier letting him have his way. There was no changing him. People tried, much to their regret. Curtis had been brilliant, he’d had promise, and there had been the possibility of change that would now never come. She’d loved him in her way, she supposed, as he had her, but his eyes had been on a distant shore, and his life had been an endless striving to get there. She thought wryly: Maybe he’s there, finally.

Have you had breakfast? her father asked.

Yes, at home.

How’s Jon?

He’s going to be sorry he didn’t see you.

Lily said, We have to be getting back. Your father has an appointment at the doctor’s. Her mother had hold of her hand. Can’t you come down? Both you and Jon?

There’s room. Her father gazed fondly at her.

Elsie knew they’d like them to come, particularly her father, for he enjoyed Jon so, but she couldn’t leave Curtis. I’ve got to see this through.

Her father nodded understandingly. It’s all right. He looked at his watch. Mother?

Lily patted her hand. Call us, Elsie.

I will, Elsie promised, getting up.

On the way to the car in the parking lot Robert snorted and said, I never did like the son of a bitch.

I know, Lily said sadly. But now, with him the way he is, it would seem to me best to forget.

They reached the car and Robert produced the key to open the door. He knew how I felt. I told him once.

I didn’t know that. Lily was surprised.

He’d been shitty to Elsie. He opened the door, went around to his side as Lily climbed in. When he was in the driver’s seat he said, I’m not happy to see him where he is, you understand, but if it was going to happen to anybody...

Chapter 2

In the morning light Alex Hanson read the letter the management of the Hazelton Apartments had slipped under his door. It told him they were going to convert into condos and he had three months to decide whether to buy or vacate. He thought about it for a minute. He would buy. He wished all life’s problems were so easily solved.

He left the third floor, spurning the elevator for the stairs, walked down to the street, and then jogged to the medical center. Once there, he would shower and change into whites before grabbing breakfast in the center cafeteria. It was his morning ritual.

It was a glorious day in Westridge. He was glad he didn’t live in the Los Angeles basin anymore. There the smog already lay like a saffron mantle over everything. Airplane pilots chose Westridge to live in, they said, cause it was one of the few places they could see from the air as they passed over. Alex had chosen Westridge because of the medical center, and he'd not regretted it. For him it beat private practice all to hell.

And now there was Elsie. The excitement, the wonder, and the pleasure of Elsie. Not that there hadn’t always been Elsie, at least since medical school when they’d first met, but they’d never been by circumstance thrown so closely together. She had changed little in all the years, was still petite and shapely, possessed of those large eyes that could still melt frozen hearts. Yes, she brightened his days; she was the kind of woman that made you feel glad to be alive.

When he finished breakfast he went to the third floor, picked up the clipboard at the central nursing station, went through the mirror-paneled door to the intensive care unit, and smiled at Elsie in her chair. Except that Elsie was not there.

He was, for a moment, startled. Where could she be? Usually she was there, busy on her stitchery, looking up to give him a warm smile of greeting that he had grown to depend on. They always exchanged a few words. The contact always started his day off on a high note. Now he realized he was counting on seeing her more than he cared to admit.

He examined Curtis, and as he did so he thought, Where is she, Curtis? If you were conscious would you be missing her as much as I? If you were conscious would you tell me? He wondered. Curtis was strange in many ways.

Good morning, Alex, Elsie said brightly as soon as she came through the door and saw him.

He turned and she saw his pleased expression. Then he said, You’re late today.

No, I’m not. I was here earlier, but I had to meet my parents in the waiting room. She crossed to the chair beside which she had put her knitbag earlier. Didn’t you see this? In the bag were her homespun yarns, floss, and needles. She had found early on that she could not just sit with Curtis all day and do nothing.

Alex moved to rest an arm on the rail of one of the two unoccupied beds in the unit. How are they?

She arranged the crewelwork on her lap being, as usual, acutely conscious of Alex. Perhaps if he weren’t so obviously interested in her... Yet the rekindling of an old flame made her feel that perhaps her life wasn’t over after all. As she looked up at him she wanted to tell him it was all right, he didn’t have to hide his feelings, for then she would not have to hide hers.

Dad’s retired and they live in Festejo. They gad about a lot.

Do they like it down there?

She wondered why all the questions. Oh, Dad’s a little antsy. He was always a doer.

After a solemn pause Alex said, So were you, Elsie.

A little surprised, she looked across at him. Alex, usually brisk and efficient, a few choice words and he’d be gone, was taking time out to be admonishing again. It was difficult for him, being both physician and friend. No neutral observer he: he cared, and she liked that. He’d mellowed. So very different from Curtis, although at times, such as now, Alex could be as gruff and bluntly unsparing, but she needed that, too. She said, I’ll get back to it some day, Alex. She wished he’d get off it.

He did. How’s Jon?

Funny, everybody asks about Jon.

He’s a good kid, that’s why.

I had to get up early to get him off to school. He’s under reprimand at the moment.

Yours or theirs?

Theirs. A shoving incident. It’s the first time, and I didn’t have the heart to scold him. She remembered how, when Jon had come up to see Curtis, the one and only time, Alex had taken time off to explain everything to him, which was a nice thing for Alex to do, seeing that Jon had a curious and lively mind and was interested in all the processes. Maybe he’s going to be a doctor, Alex had said. She had said, God forbid, but she knew she lacked conviction.

Now Alex said, When, Elsie? When are you going to get back into it? His dark blue eyes regarded her with such solemnity it unnerved her. She wished he would not look at her like that.

When she could say nothing he went on. It’s no good, you know, your coming here every single day to sit with an unconscious man the way you do. When she opened her mouth to reply he raised his hand to stop her. I’m not saying you can’t sit here or that you shouldn’t, but I just don’t think it’s good for you, Elsie. If it weren’t for Jon you’d probably be here around the clock.

I’m not the patient, she said tartly, flushing, knowing full well what he was saying was true. I can do what I wish.

There’s not much can be done about Curtis, but I don’t want to lose you, too.

I’ll think about it. Immediately she wished she hadn’t been so short with him. He was, after all, one of the few true friends she had. More friend than even he imagined, considering that he had so often been in her recurring dream, standing before her and Jon, protecting them from Curtis, then battling Curtis for her safety. It was romantic, perhaps, but there was also truth in it. She was sure he would defend her or protect her if he had to. And then she realized suddenly that is exactly what he was doing now. He was worried about her, wanted to help her. She told herself she would remember that. Alex suddenly stiffened and turned to where Curtis was, which startled her a little. She watched him get up, move to the bed, press a panel button on the portable EEG, twist the dial for maximal gain.

What’s happening? she asked, half fearful.

Just random fluctuations, he said, a little too easily, she thought. We’ll be getting those now.

She didn’t see why there should be any fluctuations at all, but then electroencephalography was still mostly a mystery to her. Alex had put the portable machine beside Curtis’s bed and this was the first time the strip-chart needles had moved. It unsettled her. What does that mean, Alex?

Nothing. Another easy answer? A malfunction, probably. I’ve pushed for maximum deviation, but there’s nothing but a flat line right now, which is the way it’s supposed to be. He moved back to the bed. She watched his eyes. What it really means is I’ll have to check it out.

He wasn’t worried, so she wouldn’t be. She looked to Curtis, decided to say what she’d been thinking. Do you think he looks better?

No. His condition has stabilized, that’s all. He’s getting optimal life support now. That’s why his flesh tones are pinker.

Elsie sighed. It must be my training. I see health even when it’s receding.

It’s not receding. It’s stabilized. There’s no longer any oxygen deprivation. We had trouble with that, if you remember.

She recalled the cyanosis and how terrified she’d been that Curtis would die right then and there. As it was, he was going to die anyway, only no one knew when. Just like the rest of us, she said to herself. She put down her work, turned to stare at her husband’s body. Curtis always said I was overly optimistic, and I suppose I am. He was fond of saying to people, ‘Elsie Sheridan, my wife, singer of glad songs, spreader of joy, sayer of good words,’ especially after a few drinks. People didn’t realize he was being sarcastic. It was his way of getting even with what he called my bubbling blitheness. He thought we all ought to be as dark and dour as he.

I don’t think Curtis was sarcastic, Elsie. Envious, perhaps. He loved you as much as he loved anyone. You were the balance-wheel of his life.

Is that what I was? She suddenly felt wretched and discomfitted. She supposed it was because she had spoken ill of Curtis, which was unlike her. She turned to the back of the cushioned Danish modern chair she’d brought from their condominium, the wild pinks Curtis would never see falling to one side. She didn’t want Alex to see her face, her self-pity, and she said to herself, Watch it, you’re coming unglued.

She decided to be frank. I know you’re right about my coming and sitting day after day, but it’s something I have to do. I don’t want to give it up. She grabbed her purse for Kleenex, tears beginning. Damn. She felt grindingly miserable. All of it right in front of Alex.

Alex picked up a chair, swung it over to where she was, set it down, the chair’s back to her, and sat astride it. It’s no good, Elsie, he said. It keeps racking you up. It’s like a prison sentence, being in this room.

Don’t you think I know that? She dabbed at her eyes. Sorry to be so blubbery.

He was wearing his stern face, the one with no pity in it. Then why do you do it? Look, let’s face up to things. First off, this is a nowhere trip for you. You know it and I know it. You just admitted it. And it’s the end of the line for Curtis. You know that, too. You’re a nurse. Or you were a nurse, before all this happened.

I’m a nurse. I’m still a nurse. Why are you saying these things to me? But she knew. He was saying them in order to make them real and palpable, so that she would have to recognize them for what they were. So she couldn’t hate him for it even though he was making her angry.

It isn’t as if all this is a mystery to you, then. He went on, You’re not the average wife whose husband lies in a coma. It isn’t as if you really believed you could do something for Curtis by sitting here. You know as well as I do that there’s absolutely no hope in cases of irreversible coma. So why do you go on torturing yourself like this? Do you honestly think he’s ever going to get over what’s happened to him?

No. Do you?

No.

Then tell me, Alex, why are we keeping him alive? Why is life held sacred at any cost, in any form? Why are millions of dollars spent each year keeping people like Curtis alive, people whose brains have ceased to function?

Elsie—

Why, Alex. Why? And why here at Westridge more than anywhere else? Why can’t we recognize death? Why do we have to fight the inevitable?

Elsie, we’ve got to have hope.

Her eyes filled with tears again because she desperately wanted to have hope, not for Curtis alone but for all the people she had cared for who died and for whom she had not mourned. Why do we do it, Alex? Why do we treat people with chemotherapy and radical surgery for cancers we know can’t be cured? My God, Alex, we drain these families of their money to do this. Why? Will you tell me that?

He said calmly, For a few more days, weeks, months of life. Granted it might not be life at its best, but at least it’s life.

She sat considering it, the added days, the increasing pain, the confusion, the certainty of final things like the last breath. She was empty and had been for a long time. Everything vital had leached out.

She said, Alex, why don’t I feel something?

The trouble is, you do. Too much, I think.

No. I’ll tell you why I come here, really why. I keep coming here because I think that one day I’ll feel something. Something about Curtis and me. Regret, maybe. Sorrow. Grief. Oh, God, I wish I felt grief. Something. You’d think at the end of it there’d be something.

She blew her nose. "You’d think thirteen years would make a difference, one way or another, thirteen years of being a sounding board, a buffer state, a