questions—when he had another spell.
The wall mirror above the bureau. The IV stand. The heart monitors on the rolling console beside the bed. His bed with the baby-blue spread, side bars to prevent him from falling out if he had a seizure. His rebirth crib.
He looked out the window into the predawn gray. How the world had changed, he thought. How he had changed since a bunch of jellyfish burned a hole in his tape.
In a matter of minutes the outside light grew brighter. The blinds hung at a funny angle, like a gull with a broken wing.
He could smell the ocean. That probably explained why in the dream he sensed being at the sea. Subtle fishy scents from the window had crossed with a dim recall of the jellyfish attack. Crank that through your squeeze box and that explained why he could still dimly make out a dead, bloodied animal near the water—maybe a beached porpoise or harbor seal that had gotten chopped up by some nitwit on jet skis.
Which sometimes happened in Buck’s Cove.
Whatever, it was a bad dream that had left his johnny wet and his brain tender. Yet what stayed with him for the rest of the morning was how
And what gnawed at his mind like an osprey was that he had woken up with his thumb in his mouth.
LATER THAT MORNING NURSE MARCY BROUGHT him back to the PT room where the therapist had him stand for several minutes at the parallel bars. Then they had him lie on the floor pads, moving his legs and arms in different positions. After several minutes of that, they sat him in a wheelchair and worked on exercising his wrists, arms, and neck.
For his upper body they had him do free weights. The last time in the gym he was doing three sets of ten at thirty pounds, and his arms looked like hams. Now he was working out on five pounds, and his biceps looked like walnuts.
This went on twice a day every day. By the end of the first week he was able to move ten feet on the parallel bars, a major victory culminating in his going solo with a walker. To celebrate, Jack asked if someone could run down to the video store and rent him a copy of
While his body began to strengthen, Jack read newspapers and magazines to catch up on what he had missed.
On the bright side, Red Sox fans were talking about their boys pulling it off again this year. And on that happy possibility, Jack dozed off.
48
“HEY, PAL, WHAT’S WITH THE Rip Van Winkle stunt?”
Jack opened his eyes. “Where the hell you been?”
“Where the hell you been?” Vince chuckled and took Jack’s hand in his.
Vince Hammond stood at Jack’s bedside wearing a black long-sleeve polo and with a big, exuberant boyish face. His hair was shorter than Jack had remembered and spiked with gel, making him look even younger, probably still getting himself carded in bars. But what struck Jack was the difference in their geometry. Against the light flooding through the window Vince looked as if he’d spent the missing months on a Cybex machine. His neck looked like a hydrant, and his shirtsleeves resembled tubes of grapefruits. He had not let the constant exposure to haute cuisine get the best of him. By contrast, Jack felt like a beef jerky.
“How come you’re not fat and bald?”
“I’m working on it,” Vince said, and squeezed a beer wing. “You’re looking a hell of a lot better than you did six months ago.”
“Hard to look worse, I hear.”
“Yeah, you were something of a mess.”
Jack raised the hand mirror the nurses had given him. “And now I’m the Shroud of Turin.”
Vince laughed and pulled up a chair. “The important thing is how you’re feeling.”
“Like a whoopee cushion for all the gas.”
“What are they feeding you?”
“White stuff.” Jack nodded at the tray of half-eaten mashed potatoes and tapioca pudding.
“When you get your teeth back, some red and green.” Vince held up a shiny red bag with the Yesterdays logo. “There’s a freezer down the hall.”
Jack looked at the bag, which almost looked like patent leather,
Vince frowned at the size. “Yeah, maybe our portions are too big.”
“I hear you’re doing well.”
Vince pulled a menu from the bag. “We’re doing well.”
He handed Jack the menu, a handsomely designed folder of just two pages, instead of the kind of multipage folios that confused your appetite. Desserts on the back side with the list of boutique beers.
“I’ll have the calimari with polenta salad and seafood risotto.”
“Look, when they let you out, you’re gonna be just fine, eating like a king, I’ll make sure. Another thing, I know some real estate people who’ll find you a nice place. And when you’re up for it, you’ve got a job at the restaurant. So when are they going to let you out?”
“Thanks to you, about six weeks.” The nurses had told him how Vince had come in several times a week to help exercise Jack’s legs and arms, confident that he would come out of it and wanting to make sure he’d wake up “ready to trot.” In two weeks the therapist said he’d graduate to a walker, eventually to a cane. But it was uncertain if he’d have a permanent limp.
“You could be our host, so you don’t have to walk much.”
Jack smiled. “Sounds fine.”
Vince and Jack had been friends since junior year in high school—twenty years of sharing hopes, fears, kid fun, many laughs, some defeats, some painful wisdom, and the kind of closeness that exceeded brotherhood. They both went to Northeastern University, where Jack got his degree in English and Vince in criminal justice because he wanted to be a cop. Four years ago, he got shot by a felon during an arrest and spent two months in a hospital—an experience that made him promise his wife no more police work. So he quit the force, and after some small odd jobs on disability, he saved enough money for him and Jack to begin plans on their restaurant.
“Beth came by.”
“I heard.”
“She’s remarried.” He knew Vince knew but he had to give it official pronouncement.
“I’m really sorry about that.”
“Yeah.” The syllable stuck in this throat.
“But think of it as you turning a new page.”
“More like a new book.”
“Whatever, it beats the alternative. The nurses say your recall is something.”
“So I’m told.”
“But you’re feeling okay?”
