At that moment, several people burst into the room—two other nurses, another assistant, the nursing supervisor, and Dr. Clive Preston, director of the facility.
“His feet are moving,” one nurse said, and she pulled up the bedding to reveal the tennis shoes.
Greendale was aggressive with its physical therapy of coma patients—regularly exercising their limbs and digits, fixing their hands and feet in splints to prevent drop foot and hands freezing into claws. The shoes were intended to keep his toes pointing upward. Despite all that, two weeks in bed was like losing a year of muscular life. And six months of disuse had reduced Jack to scarecrow proportions.
Marcy removed his shoes. “Jack, can you wiggle your toes for me?”
Nothing. His eyes closed again.
“Then just move your feet a little.”
Still nothing.
“Jack.
Jack’s eyelids fluttered slightly then opened partway. He rolled his head toward Marcy.
“Good. Can you hear me?” She lowered her face to his. His eyes were at half-mast, peering at her. But his tongue moved behind his teeth.
“Mmm.”
“What’s that?” She had to get him to track her with his eyes, to confirm that this wasn’t a false alarm.
Jack’s eyes widened and locked on to Marcy’s. And in a barely audible voice scraping through a larynx unused for months, Jack said, “You have big teeth.”
“I sure do.” Marcy’s white front teeth protruded slightly.
The paper skin around Jack’s eyes crinkled ever so slightly, and the muscles of his mouth expanded into a faint smile. Remarkably he was processing memory, even judging with humor. This was incredible. Also the fact that he had articulated his words so well. “Great. Now, Jack, please look at me.”
Jack’s eyes opened with gluey effort, his pupils large, parallel, and fixed on her face.
“Good. My name is Marcy. I want you to tell me your name. Understand?”
He looked down at his arm with the IV attached to the drip bags and catheter running to a bag hanging on the bed’s side and the wires connecting him to the monitors. In a breathy rasp, he said, “Where am I?”
“You’re at Greendale Rehabilitation Home in Cabot, Massachusetts.”
Jack rolled his head toward her, blinking against the lights at the circle of faces looking down at him. “Blurry.”
Marcy’s heart leapt up. Remarkably he was processing thought. “Yes, blurry. That’s from the ointment we put in your eyes. But can you see me okay?”
“Mmmm.”
“Can you tell me your name?”
“Jack Koryan.”
“Great. That’s great.” Because Jack was her patient, the others let Marcy maintain a running monologue to keep Jack awake and to assess any neurological dysfunction. Nearly glowing with pride, she had him wiggle his toes, his fingers, blink one eye, then the next, tell her his full name, to repeat words after her. But what she dreaded telling him was that he had missed the last half year of his life.
“Hi, Jack, my name is Clive Preston. I’m the director here at Greendale.”
Marcy nodded for Dr. Preston to continue. “You had a swimming accident and were unconscious for a while. You’re getting better, but you have to stay awake and keep talking to us. Okay?”
“How long?”
Marcy felt her insides clutch. The shock could be traumatic, maybe even bring on a relapse.
“How long?” Preston asked.
Before he could answer, Marcy cut in. “Jack, the important thing is for you to talk to us.” She took his hand. It wasn’t supposed to happen this way. Patients never just snapped out of deep comas; they emerged gradually, over days—enough time to call in relatives and friends to be there when they woke up. Jack had emerged from a profound coma lasting over six months and was suddenly demanding answers.
His eyes scanned the faces. “How long?”
Marcy wished Beth or Vince were there. The shock could send him into a panic. “Jack, I want to run a few tests on you. I want you to count to ten, okay?”
He closed his eyes for a long moment. But instead of mouthing numbers, he said, “Honesty is the best therapy.”
The words sent a cold ripple through Marcy. Her slogan. What she had said to Beth—but
“What’s … date?”
Dr. Preston pushed forward. “Jack, I know how confusing this all is, but we’d like you to just answer a few simple questions, okay?”
Jack closed his eyes again and rocked his head slowly from side to side.
“Jack, don’t go back to sleep,” Marcy said. “Please open your eyes.”
“Dreaming,” he whispered.
“What’s that?”
“Dream.”
“No, you’re not dreaming, Jack.”
“Jack, tell me your name again.”
“Jack Koryan.” Then his eyes widened as something passed through him. “What’s date?”
Marcy glanced at the others who looked like wax images of themselves hanging over the bed.
A groan rose from Jack’s throat. “Whatsa date?” he repeated.
Dr. Preston shot a hard look to Marcy, then nodded. He was deferring to her and her baseline policy. To stall him until Beth and Vince arrived would not work. It could even cause him trauma. “Jack,” Marcy finally said, “you had an accident swimming and you’ve been in a coma. You’ve been asleep. Do you understand me?”
And in slow deliberate breath he asked, “How … long?”
“Jack, can you tell me where you live? What town you live in.”
“
To deflect the question would only make him more agitated. But to tell him the truth could be worse.
Jack looked at her blankly as he processed her words.
“You had a swimming accident off a beach on Homer’s Island—know where that is?”
Jack nodded.
“Good. Well, you blacked out in the water.” And she told him how he was brought from a hospital on Cape Cod to MGH to here. She narrated the details slowly and deliberately for him to absorb, repeating herself, asking him if he was following her, trying not to get him too upset or excited. She left out the jellyfish. There was no point adding to the shock. When she finished, he looked down at his left hand. For a moment Marcy thought he was trying to make sense of the IV connection. But he was inspecting his fingers.
“Beth?”
“Beth is on her way in. We just called her. Now, I want you to do me a favor. I want you to wiggle your toes.”
“Beth.” He repeated her name again as if testing his memory.
“Yes, we just talked to her, and she’s coming in to see you.”
“Still my wife?”
“Now, Jack, I want you to wiggle your toes for me, okay?”
“Still my wife?”
Marcy knew what he was asking. “I’m sorry, Jack,” she said, and shook her head. Gently she gently stroked his hand. Two months ago Beth moved to McAllen, Texas, to remarry.
Jack closed his eyes, and in a matter of moments his eyeballs began to flutter.
“Jack!” She had to keep him talking. “Jack.” Suddenly his face appeared to reshape itself. The skin across his forehead smoothed out, blanking the frown and scowl lines at the corners of his eyes; his lips began to move as if
