Comfort & Joy

CLEAR.

Bobby is reaching for me, screaming. “Joy, you promised. You promised . . . ”

CLEAR.

Pain explodes in my chest, rattles my whole body, and the world goes black.

Part Two

“You see things and you say, ‘Why?’

But I dream things that never were

And say, ‘Why not?’”

—GEORGE BERNARD SHAW

T he next time I open my eyes, all I see is light, bright white and buzzing.

I am in bed, but it’s not my bed in Room 1A. The ceiling overhead is made up of white acoustical tiles with long tubes of fluorescent lighting.

There are people all around me, too, dressed in orange, moving in and out and around me like dancers. I can see them talking to one another, but I can’t hear anything except that buzzing in my ears and the whoosh-thunk of a machine that sounds like waves breaking on the beach.

On either side of me are machines that make noises. I see a black television screen with a green graph that moves across it in waves.

I’m in a hospital.

I must have collapsed in the park. Had a heart attack or something. I try to move, to angle up to sit so that I can see more of the room around me, but my arms and legs feel useless, heavy.

“Bobby?” I whisper. My throat burns at the effort. I’m painfully thirsty. “Daniel?”

“Hello, there, Joy. It’s nice to see you. ”

A man’s face swims in front of me. I struggle to focus. I can see him in pieces: snow white hair . . . tan skin . . . blue eyes . . . a diamond earring.

It’s the man from the gas station.

“Wh . . . t?” I want to ask “what are you doing here?” but my tongue isn’t working.

He gives me an ice chip to soothe my fiery throat. “Don’t try to talk, Joy. You’ve been intubated. The soreness in your throat is normal. I’m Dr. Saunders. You gave us all quite a scare. ”

“Who? . . . ” Are you? I don’t understand what’s happening and it scares me.

“You just rest now. ”

The people in my room talk among themselves in whispered tones designed to keep me from hearing. Their faces are a sea of blurry circles; everyone is frowning at me and pointing. There is a lot of head-shaking going on. One by one, they leave.

I can hear their footsteps walking away, and the opening and closing of a door.

Then there are only the machines in here with me, making their noises—a click-buzz, a thunk-whoosh; a blip-blip-blip. And I am alone, unable to move, staring up at this unfamiliar ceiling.

Poor Bobby. He must be terrified.

I won’t leave you.

And here I am, in the hospital.

I want him here, beside my bed so that I can smile and tell him I’m fine.