Nightwolf

She hands me the paper sleeve, and when I look inside it’s one of their breakfast sandwiches that I have an unhealthy obsession with. I don’t even know what time it is, the hospital so far feels like a black hole that exists beyond space, but it might be after dinner.

What a fucking day.

She hands me my oat milk latte, and I feel a tiny burst of happiness when I realize it’s the new Christmas special, Gingerbread, first of the season for me.

Then I’m hit with shame for feeling that happiness considering my mom is in a coma and currently having her brain looked at. For a moment I’m amazed at what my mind is able to do, how it’s able to be happy about something as absolutely stupid and trivial as a favorite drink when my life is completely falling apart. I didn’t expect that.

I sit back down on the couch, my soul feeling torn by the duality of it all, and slowly take a bite of the sausage and egg. I want to shove it all down at once but I have a feeling I’ll get sick, so I take my time, my stomach protesting.

It’s good though. I’m about half-way through and savoring each bite when Lenore sits down beside me.

“Want to talk about Wolf?” she asks.

I shake my head. It feels like a can of worms at this point.

“What to talk about your mother?”

My heart sinks. It’s like the breakfast sandwich made me forget about reality for two seconds, about this new reality, and everything was more or less fine, and now the cover is ripped right off again.

“Only if you say good things,” I tell her, feeling shaky. “I can’t handle anything negative right now. I need to believe she’s going to be okay, okay?”

Lenore leans closer and puts her hand over mine. “Of course. And she will pull through.”

I stare into Lenore’s hazel eyes and I want to make her promise that, because if she promises that, then I’ll really know it’ll be okay. But I won’t make her do that. I can tell she’s been crying too.

“I just…it’s so hard to see her like that, you know?” I say, picking at my food. “She looks so small in that bed and there are so many tubes. And the machines, they won’t stop beeping at me. I keep thinking I’m doing something wrong, like I shouldn’t be trying to stimulate her. But I’ve read that’s what you’re supposed to do. The nurses even said to keep talking to her.”

“Yes,” Lenore says, bringing out her phone. She opens it and goes to a web page. “I’ve been reading all about comas and all the miracles that happen. Did you know this guy was in a coma for like two years and they played him his favorite Rolling Stones song and he woke up? Just like that?”

“Really?” I ask excitedly, taking the phone from her and flipping through all the success stories or miracles. I’ve never been religious, though I do believe in God, and the concept of miracles was never something I’ve rejected, I just never put much thought into them. But whatever you want to call it, it does seem like so many people in my mom’s situation just wake up one day and come out of it.

Hope swells inside my heart. I know it’s a dangerous thing to have sometimes and I feel like this hope might become so strong it might hurt me, but for now I’m clinging to it like a life raft.

“You know what I should do?” I say to Lenore. “I should make a playlist of all my mom’s favorite music and play it for her. Maybe it will stimulate her mind.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Lenore says, her eyes going bright.

“I could name the playlist Coma,” I say.

She stills.

“Too morbid?” I venture.

She then laughs. “No, it’s just your dark sense of humor. That’s what you get for living with vampires.” She takes the phone back from me and scrolls to another page. “See here, they did this study with coma patients and they found that if they had friends and family come and talk about old times with the person, that it triggered their memory and made them more likely to wake from the coma. Do you have any aunts or uncles that could maybe come by and talk about old times?”

I shake my head, hating how alone I suddenly feel. “No. My grandparents are dead and my mom was, is an only child, just like I am. She has some cousins I’m vaguely friends with but they live in Europe. Which reminds me, I should probably make a Facebook post about it, just to get the word out there in case they see it.”

“And I guess you don’t talk to your dad?” she asks hesitantly.