Boundaries by T.M. Wright

Care noticed a change in his respiration and EEG. She paged David’s doctor, who was in the middle of a shower but heard the paging anyway. Five minutes later he was beside David’s bed, his legs and bottom still damp from the shower. He scowled at the dampness.
    David’s eyes flickered open. Closed.
    The doctor leaned over him. "Mr. Case?" he whispered. "David?"
    No reaction.
    The nurse monitoring outside the room said into her microphone, "His respiration is becoming shallow again, Doctor."
    "Dammit!" the doctor whispered. "David!" he said sharply.
    David’s eyes popped open.
    "Respiration heavier," the nurse said into her microphone.
    "David?" said the doctor. "Can you hear me? Blink if you can hear me."
    No reaction.
    The doctor shone the beam of a penlight into David’s eyes, found the pupils responsive.
    David turned his head ever so slightly toward the doctor. It was a quick and unexpected motion, and the doctor straightened a little in surprise. He grinned, embarrassed, and leaned over once more. "Mr. Case? Are you with us?"
    No reaction.
    "Mr. Case?"
    David turned his head so he was once again staring at the ceiling. "My God," he whispered, "I’m back."
    ~ * ~
    THE FOLLOWING DAY

    "He’ll tell you a wild story," the doctor said to Christian Grieg and Karen Duffy, seated in front of his desk. "He’ll tell you he’s gone over to the other side." He shrugged. "Heaven, as it were—"
    "No," Christian interrupted. "He’d object to that.“
    "Object?" The doctor was puzzled.
    "To your characterization of this . . . place he claims to have gone to as ‘heaven.’ He’d disagree with it."
    Again the doctor shrugged. "Be that as it may—and I really fail to see the difference; the difference is actually just one of semantics, isn’t it? Be that as it may," he repeated, "we are going to hold him for a few more days."
    "Why?" Karen asked.
    The doctor shook his head a little as if in reassurance. "Observation. Merely observation, Miss Duffy." He paused meaningfully. "And there really is no assurance that he won’t try it again, is there?"
    "Try ‘it’?" Karen asked. "Try what?”
    “Suicide," the doctor said.
    Karen gave him a tight smile. "You can’t hold him forever."
    Christian said, "Perhaps it would be better for David if they did."
    The doctor stood. He said to Christian, "But that’s out of the question, of course."
    Christian nodded vaguely.
    The doctor came around the desk, went to the door, opened it. "If you’d follow me, please. I’ll take you to Mr. Case."
    ~ * ~
    David’s memories were as vivid as pain, as vivid and as real as the bed he lay in or the smell of anesthetic that hung in the air like a mist. And precisely because his memories were so vivid, he found it very hard to believe them. Memories were always dulled by present events, and by the expectation of future events; they got filed in a mental storehouse where they could be pulled out now and again. And they were never as vivid and as real as these memories were.
    These could easily have taken form and shared the room with him, as if they weren’t memories at all but a reality that existed outside the scope of his five senses.
    No. He could smell pine tar. Dust.
    "Back with us," he heard. He turned his head toward the door to his room. Christian was there, grinning what looked like a mock-friendly grin. Karen was beside him. She looked concerned, David thought. The doctor was already in the room.
    Karen said, "You’re going to be all right, David. You had a bad time, but now you’re going to be all right."
    The doctor said, "How are you feeling, Mr. Case? Do you think you’re up to visitors?"
    No, I’m not , David thought. He turned his head so he was looking at the ceiling. He nodded. "Yeah, sure," he said.
    There was a moment’s silence. Then Christian said, "So tell us all about it, David. We’re here because we’re your friends. But you know that, of course." David thought he could hear sarcasm in Christian’s voice. He