us. They’d make me leave if they knew!”
“You and Jordan are partners.”
He nodded, trembling, fighting to regain his self-control. In a moment he wiped his eyes with the hem of his shirt and raised his face. “Yes. We—we’re partners.”
“Then why would they make you leave?”
“We didn’t get married. That stupid election . . . we were going to, but then they put the referendum for affirmation on the ballot and we couldn’t. And then it was affirmed, but . . . Jordy was injured before we could do it. And I’m not legally a spouse, so I don’t actually have any right to be here. But he doesn’t have any family in the area, so . . . no one questioned me at first. Now, I just keep on lying. So I can stay with him.”
In 2011 Washington’s voters had passed the Marriage Equality Act, which gave same-sex couples the privilege to marry legally and enjoy the same protections under the law as heterosexual couples. A religious group had called the law into question before it went into effect and the referendum had gone back onto the ballot for affirmation in 2012. In spite of strong lobbying by the political right, the law had been affirmed by a solid margin, and gay and lesbian couples had rushed to make their partnerships legally binding. Without the paperwork, however, Westman didn’t technically have the same rights to visit his spouse or make decisions about his care. With no other family in the area to back up his decisions, Westman was walking a very dangerous line.
“What would happen to Jordan if you were forced to leave?” I asked.
“I don’t know. I suppose they’d need to talk to his folks or . . . they might make him a ward of the state. I don’t know what would happen then, and it scares me. This is awful. And then this strange thing—these messages—started. I don’t know what they are or what they mean.”
“Have you been keeping copies of them?”
“No. It’s too freaky. Why?”
“I think it’s connected to two other cases with similar events.”
“What does that mean? ‘Similar events’?”
“There are other PVS patients who are manifesting strange activity, like the messages on Jordan’s arms. It’s not the same thing, but I think it’s of a piece.” I didn’t want to raise his anxiety further, but I knew time was short. “I’m sure Jordan’s doctor has told you that the longer a patient remains this way, the less likely his recovery becomes. One of the other patients seems to be failing, so there is some pressure to figure out why this is happening as quickly as possible. If I have all the pieces to the puzzle, we might discover what’s causing it and come up with a way to help all of them.”
“Really?” Westman grabbed my hands. “Will it make him better?”
“I don’t know. It may be that all I can do is make the messages stop. But wouldn’t it be worthwhile to try?”
“Yes! I’d rather have Jordy back, but it would be something, at least, not to see him in this state,” he said, waving at the angry marks that lingered on Delamar’s skin.
“Would you be willing to copy this message down for me?”
“Yes! But we don’t have to write it all down—I can use my phone to take pictures if you’ll help me. . . .” He seemed uncomfortable asking for a favor, the energy around him flickering orange and green.
Assisting with the photos was uncomfortably intimate and I wished I could look away, not invade their privacy or witness the wasting state of Delamar’s body and Westman’s painful sadness at revealing it piece by piece, moving sheets or the shirt aside with care and then covering him again gently. We closed the door and worked in methodical silence until every line of swollen, bloody words had been recorded.
Then we sat down again, not speaking, not looking at each other. Westman stared at the photos, checking them. He frowned and put the phone down on the tray table that we’d moved to the side of the bed.
“What is it?” I asked, watching him reach for a pad of paper and a pencil.
“I’m not sure,” Westman said. He wrote something on the paper, looked at the photo again, and crossed something out before writing a new word over the excised one. He held the pad out to me. “It’s hard to make out—the writing’s so bad. . . .” He held up the camera next to the pad for me to read and flipped through a series of pictures. “I’m not sure I remember right, but . . . this message—or a lot of these words at least—may have appeared before. Do you think I’m reading the words correctly or just . . . wanting them to be familiar?”
I glanced at the sentences—just two—that he had written down and compared them to the photos, looking back and forth from the long, spidery lines on Delamar’s skin to Westman’s transcription. “The writing is hard to read, but, yes, I think you’ve copied it correctly. ‘Given as Limos tribute, those who wasted away. Given to the wheel of death and birth, to break the wheel we are driven.’”
I frowned over the strange message as Westman said, “It doesn’t make any sense, does it?”
“Not yet. It may eventually, though, in context with other messages.”
“Other messages?”
“If you remember any of the other writing you’ve seen. . . .” I was reluctant to be too blunt about the surface on which these messages were appearing—it seemed invasive and uncouth.
“Oh,” he said, crestfallen. “I thought maybe there were other messages from . . . the other patients.”
“There are.”
“Do any of them say something like this . . . ?” he asked.
“So far, no, but I haven’t read or listened to them all.” I changed tack slightly, since this conversation seemed destined only for frustration. “Can you tell me what happened to Jordan?” I didn’t want to rely on the vendor’s version of events alone.
“There was some work going on around the market—something about the tunnel or monitoring the tunnel. . . . Anyhow, whatever they were doing caused some temporary structures to collapse. He was hit on the top of the head by a falling awning pole. His doctor said something about cranial sutures . . . the place where the skull grows together when you’re a kid. He said the intersection is weaker than the rest of the skull and that’s right where Jordy got hit. He had some kind of swelling or clot pushing on his brain and they had to operate to remove it. But he—the surgeon—said that after they removed the clot the damage was like a bad concussion and Jordan should be fine. But he didn’t get better. I mean, his head healed up and they say everything’s fine, but he won’t wake up.”
“And where did this happen?”
“At the market—at Pike Place Market. Jody’s a musician and he performs there.”
“Did he fall onto a hard surface or down some distance?” I asked, to be sure it really was the same accident that had been described to me before.
“He landed in some dirt the workmen had dug up. It got in his mouth and nose, but the doctor said it didn’t contribute to the damage—it might have made the impact softer, actually. But he still got the clot and was unconscious.” He gazed at Delamar a moment before adding, “I haven’t seen him looking back at me since that morning. I was on my way to work and he was still in bed, smiling at me . . . and that’s the last time. . . .” He squeezed his eyes closed, forcing tears to roll off his lower lashes and creep down his cheeks. His breath was ragged and he didn’t say anything more until it eased back to normal. “I’m sorry. I get maudlin. . . .”
“It’s OK,” I said. The conversation stalled on the awkward moment.
After a bit Westman sniffed and sat up straighter. “What else did you want to know?” he asked, making an effort to act normal and do something.
“Did he have another job as well? I know performing can be rough financially.”
He looked a little uncomfortable. “No. I supported us a lot of the time. I’m a programmer. The money’s good but that’s another reason I’m worried—I’ve taken a lot of time off or been working from home, and his health insurance doesn’t really cover this. I do. I don’t know how much longer I can make this stretch. . . .” His eyes widened in alarm. “You’re sure you’re not from the insurance company? You’re not going to cut us off—!”
I turned my palms out in a calming gesture. “No, no. I’m not working for the insurance company. I work for the sister of one of the other patients who’s exhibiting similar behavior.”
Westman sagged in his chair. “I can’t take a lot more. I live in a state of fear every minute. ‘What if they find out?’ ‘What if they drop us?’ ‘What if he gets worse . . . ?’”
“I don’t know if it will be a consolation, but at least you aren’t alone in this and I’m going to get to the bottom of it, I promise.”
He grabbed my hands. “Don’t promise. I couldn’t stand it if it fell through. Please. Just . . . do your best.”
