and took her hand to pull her to the high side, stretching his legs across the cockpit to brace himself. His right hand gripped the tiller, and seemingly unconscious of his touch, he wrapped his other arm around Charlotte’s waist. And then he became quite conscious of it, his arm more secure and purposeful, and she felt his eyes exploring her face as intensely as she had felt them the first day they met, when he had walked her to her car in the twilight. He eased the tiller so the bow dropped and the boat leveled off a bit. She broke her eyes from the stomach-settling line of sky and ocean and looked at him, gave in to the dizzying electric pull between them. He tilted his head and his arm drew her closer. And at that instant saliva flooded her mouth and she lurched away to throw up over the side of the boat.
He still kissed her for the first time, later that evening. That alone, she thought, might have been what persuaded her to let go and fall in love. So almost a year after she chanced upon a book reading, chanced upon a man falling into a seizure practically at her feet, her life diverged onto a course she couldn’t have predicted or planned. A course she would have said she no longer hoped for, in no small part because it depended on someone else.
—
In the middle of Jane’s fourth night at Beacon Hospital she had a grand mal seizure and Otero had to put her into a medically induced coma with phenobarbital, a potent sedative. It was the only way to stop the electrochemical fireworks set off by the injured parts of her brain, and each seizure had the potential to cause even more damage. As much as Charlotte hated it, the phenobarbital coma delayed one pressing dilemma: it gave her the perfect reason not to continue checking her patient for brain death. Deeply sedated, Jane couldn’t react to the basic tests of brain function—pain, or noise, or a light brush of her eyes. And if she was brain-dead, all else was pointless. She would expire soon after they stopped the ventilator.
The MRI had confirmed Charlotte’s diagnosis of fat emboli—dozens of small lesions were scattered through the cortex of Jane’s brain, that thin, tangled neural shell that held higher consciousness. Her mind. Her Jane -ness. No, not “Jane,” Charlotte thought, but the woman Jane had actually been. Was. Is . The mother, the child, the friend, the artist or mathematician. The atheist or Christian, Democrat or Republican or anarchist. The teacher or bus driver. Or all of those—as complicated as all people are—defined by one thing one day and changed on another. Searching, always, for what lay on the other side of the truth we believe absolutely today. The seat of Jane’s soul, whatever a soul was, resided in her cerebral cortex—the rest of her body was little more than the insensate plant that fed it, allowed it a means to see, smell, hear, communicate, move.
Looking at the MRI with the radiologist, hearing the tap-tap-tap of his pencil against the black-and-gray splatter of wounds through Jane’s brain, Charlotte had for one dark moment almost wanted Jane to be proved brain-dead so they could stop all the machines and let her go. Better, perhaps, than discovering how little of her might be left if her body survived with just enough brain function to keep her heart and lungs going. Still, when Felipe suggested they lighten her coma every few days to reevaluate, Charlotte argued they should focus instead on what they might be able to fix—her lungs, her liver, her kidneys, all of which were precarious—and give her brain as much time to heal as they could. He didn’t argue back. He’d been her partner for too long.
After the first few days, the flurry of media interest had died away, and to Charlotte it seemed like the authorities were passively waiting for someone to claim this lost woman rather than actively working to locate anyone who cared. She had traded phone messages with the deputy investigating Jane’s case,
He still kissed her for the first time, later that evening. That alone, she thought, might have been what persuaded her to let go and fall in love. So almost a year after she chanced upon a book reading, chanced upon a man falling into a seizure practically at her feet, her life diverged onto a course she couldn’t have predicted or planned. A course she would have said she no longer hoped for, in no small part because it depended on someone else.
—
In the middle of Jane’s fourth night at Beacon Hospital she had a grand mal seizure and Otero had to put her into a medically induced coma with phenobarbital, a potent sedative. It was the only way to stop the electrochemical fireworks set off by the injured parts of her brain, and each seizure had the potential to cause even more damage. As much as Charlotte hated it, the phenobarbital coma delayed one pressing dilemma: it gave her the perfect reason not to continue checking her patient for brain death. Deeply sedated, Jane couldn’t react to the basic tests of brain function—pain, or noise, or a light brush of her eyes. And if she was brain-dead, all else was pointless. She would expire soon after they stopped the ventilator.
The MRI had confirmed Charlotte’s diagnosis of fat emboli—dozens of small lesions were scattered through the cortex of Jane’s brain, that thin, tangled neural shell that held higher consciousness. Her mind. Her Jane -ness. No, not “Jane,” Charlotte thought, but the woman Jane had actually been. Was. Is . The mother, the child, the friend, the artist or mathematician. The atheist or Christian, Democrat or Republican or anarchist. The teacher or bus driver. Or all of those—as complicated as all people are—defined by one thing one day and changed on another. Searching, always, for what lay on the other side of the truth we believe absolutely today. The seat of Jane’s soul, whatever a soul was, resided in her cerebral cortex—the rest of her body was little more than the insensate plant that fed it, allowed it a means to see, smell, hear, communicate, move.
Looking at the MRI with the radiologist, hearing the tap-tap-tap of his pencil against the black-and-gray splatter of wounds through Jane’s brain, Charlotte had for one dark moment almost wanted Jane to be proved brain-dead so they could stop all the machines and let her go. Better, perhaps, than discovering how little of her might be left if her body survived with just enough brain function to keep her heart and lungs going. Still, when Felipe suggested they lighten her coma every few days to reevaluate, Charlotte argued they should focus instead on what they might be able to fix—her lungs, her liver, her kidneys, all of which were precarious—and give her brain as much time to heal as they could. He didn’t argue back. He’d been her partner for too long.
After the first few days, the flurry of media interest had died away, and to Charlotte it seemed like the authorities were passively waiting for someone to claim this lost woman rather than actively working to locate anyone who cared. She had traded phone messages with the deputy investigating Jane’s case,
Similar Books
In the Court of the Yellow King
Tim Curran, Cody Goodfellow, Gary McMahon, C.J. Henderson, William Meikle, T.E. Grau, Laurel Halbany, Christine Morgan, Edward Morris
