Katherine's Prophecy Page 19

  A moment later, she stood up and mechanically went through the motions of feeding her hungry puppy and then fixed herself a strong drink. The scotch could well have been water as she drained the glass dry at once and then poured another one and took it with her into the den.

  She considered starting a fire in the fireplace but quickly dismissed the idea—she had neither the strength nor the desire. Instead, she strode over to the window and peered out at the early morning light, her mind all but consumed with confusion and guilt.

  What if he doesn’t make it? she thought to herself. Or what if he survives, but never regains consciousness and becomes a vegetable for the rest of his life? Would she ever in a million years be able to forgive herself?

  Emily closed her eyes and bowed her head in prayer:

  “Please, Lord. Let him live. Let him survive this ordeal so that he might go on to live a happy and healthy life. If you must take someone, then take me instead; for my life means nothing to anyone, anyway. He’s innocent—I’m the guilty one. And I will never be able to go on living if I’ve destroyed this poor innocent man’s life. I beg your forgiveness. God bless us all. In Jesus Christ, Our Lord’s name. Amen.”

  Emily opened her eyes and felt the sting of tears. Taking another sip from her glass, she realized that she had never in her life felt as low and worthless as she did now. She had hit rock bottom. The fact that her life was now a documented and confirmed case of futility apparently wasn’t enough; because now she had gone on to mess up somebody else’s life—something she had struggled so long to avoid—and that somebody most likely would never forgive her for what she’d done to him. If he even survived, that is . . .

  Why, she wondered, had she ever been born? What had been the point in it?

  Why couldn’t she just disappear forever? The world would be a much better place.

  Emily drained her drink and returned to the kitchen to fix herself another one. Two weeks ago, she’d be as drunk as a skunk by now; but alcohol didn’t quite have the same effect on her as it did back then. She had no doubt built up a tolerance to it, just as she had to the sleeping pills the doctor had prescribed for her. What’s next? she thought to herself. Heroin?

  Emily carried her drink back into the den and plopped down in the overstuffed chair. She had no right to be wallowing in self-pity like this and she knew it.

  There was a young man, right this moment, in intensive care at the hospital fighting for his life while she sat here quibbling over how unfair life had been to her.

  She had no right! How could she be so selfish?

  But what could she do? How could she help?

  There was nothing she could do but wait. And pray. And for now, somehow try to put aside the bizarre notion that she had just fallen in love with the man she had just left in a coma at a hospital in New York City.

  CHAPTER 13

  The first sound he heard when he became conscious was a steady beep-beeping and the occasional murmuring of voices. The sounds seemed distant and tinny—smothered in echo and reverb just like an old overproduced ‘60’s pop record. He started to open his eyes and then stopped himself. For some reason he had the crazy idea that he wasn’t going to like what he’d see; that maybe the voices belonged to The Enemy and the whole place would be engulfed in flames.

  Sort of like Hell . . .

  He thought about this for several moments and then through the powers of logic and good old common sense determined that his paranoia was totally unfounded. First of all, on what basis could he assume that these mysterious voices were those of The Enemy? If that were the case, why would he be alive now and not dead? For that matter, these people could well be the reason he was alive now, for all he knew.

  Secondly, there couldn’t possibly be any fire within the proximity of where he was. He wasn’t hot; there was no intense heat. In fact, he felt rather cool if anything. If this was Hell, then everything he’d ever heard about it had been way off base.

  He opened his eyes. It was so bright that it hurt, and he promptly closed them again.

  Wow, he thought. This isn’t gonna be as easy as I thought it would be.

  He blinked a couple of times. That helped. Gave his eyes a chance to adjust a little.

  How long had his eyes been closed, anyway?

  He flickered his eyes open again. Blurry white was all he saw. This was particularly alarming—if not altogether disappointing. He tried to focus on this white nothingness with great determination until finally, after a few blinks and some fine-tuning, he zoomed in on something that looked as though it actually had some features. It was long, thin, and square; and attached to more of the same. And it wasn’t white, it was a sort of silver, or gray.

  It was the framework for the acoustic tile ceiling overhead.

  Great, he thought. I’m in a room, and that’s a good sign. But where was this room?

  He tried to turn his head sideways, but his neck was so stiff he felt like his head was going to snap off at the base of his skull. But it wasn’t altogether impossible to do, he was relieved to discover. It was just difficult and painful.

  How long had he been laying here?

  He continued turning his head slowly to the left until he could finally view his surroundings. He saw a wall, a stainless steel cart of some kind, and the monitoring device that had produced the beeping sound he was hearing.

  It was more than obvious that he was in a hospital. And this realization evoked several more questions: Why was he here? What had happened? Where in the hell was everybody? Who was he . . .?

  This was the scariest question of all, because he didn’t know.

  Just then, he heard the sound of a door opening to his right. He turned his head slowly to the right until he was staring at the ceiling again.

  “Mr. Williams!” a woman’s voice exclaimed.

  Suddenly, a face appeared above him. It was a young woman’s face, about twenty or so—very pleasant, and very nurse-like.

  “You’re awake! Can you speak, Mr. Williams?” the nurse asked.

  Mr. Williams, eh? he thought. Nice sound to it, anyway. Could be worse—like Agnew or Stantanopolous.

  Can I speak? Good question. I’ll give it a go.

  “Whaf’s your mame?” he uttered weakly. His mouth felt like it was stuffed with cotton. His throat was like sandpaper.

  The nurse smiled congenially. “I believe that translates into ‘‘What’s your name?’ My name is Brenda, Mr. Williams. I’m a nurse here at St. Vincent’s Hospital. And you could probably do with a little water or some ice chips—no doubt your mouth is a bit arid. I’d better go page Dr. Sanderson. He’s going to want to see you immediately.”

  In an instant she was out of the room. He slowly turned his head around until he could see the other side of the room and gasped when he saw the inverted bottle of clear liquid hanging from a stand and the tube that ran from it and ended at a needle that was stuck into his arm.

  An IV! he thought in horror. This is really serious! What in the hell happened to me?

  Instinctively, he looked down at himself—just in case there was something missing. Everything seemed to be intact as far as he could tell.

  He glanced over at his arm again where the IV needle was inserted, and noticed the white vinyl ID bracelet on his wrist. He tried to move his arm a little closer so he could read what the bracelet said, but was alarmed to discover that he could barely move it. His joints were as stiff as his neck; and it hurt just to make the slightest movement.

  How long have I been lying here? he asked himself again.

  He laboriously bent his arm at the elbow and moved his hand toward his face at the same time until he could read the ID bracelet.

  It read: Williams, Leonard A. #786429, rm. 376, Dr. S. Sanderson, St. Vincent’s Hospital. 1-30-95.

  He stared at the name quizzically. Leonard A. Williams, eh? Leonard? Please tell me that’s not really my name! Why couldn’t it be Bill, or John? Something a little less dorky?

  H
is attempt at humor, he knew, was just a mask the fear and panic he was really feeling the moment. Because the name, Leonard A. Williams, seemed about as familiar to him as everything else had seemed so far.

  The door opened again and an elderly man wearing a white jacket entered the room, followed by Brenda the nurse.

  “A-hah, Mr. Williams! This is a pleasant surprise!” the man exclaimed, wearing a pleasant smile as he came over to his bed.

  Lenny returned his smile, feeling like an idiot.

  “We felt certain that you’d be coming around someday, but we had no idea just when that would be,” the man explained and then turned to Brenda the nurse. “Please see if Mr. Williams can handle a little water, nurse.”

  Brenda came over to him and held a glass of water to his lips. “Not too much, Mr. Williams,” she cautioned.

  He parted his lips a little and felt the cold fluid greet his cotton-like mouth. He swallowed, nearly choked, but managed not to. The water felt good, but he knew that if he drank much more he’d probably give the nurse a good showering.

  “Thank you,” he said.

  “Any better?” she asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Well now, Mr. Williams, allow me to introduce myself. I’m Dr. Sanderson, a neurologist here at St. Vincent’s. Can you recall what happened prior to your being admitted here?”

  His brow furrowed. “Dr. Sanderson, I don’t even know who I am, much less what I’m doing in a hospital.” he replied slowly, already feeling himself becoming weak from the effort.

  Dr. Sanderson frowned. “I was afraid of that. Amnesia. A mild coma such as this frequently results in amnesia, but hopefully it won’t last long.” He paused for a moment to let this sink in and then resumed. “We’re just going to have to try and jar your memory a bit, Mr. Williams. But first, let me take a look at you.”

  “Coma?” he asked, the word sticking to his tongue like peanut butter.

  “Yes, but only a mild one. It’s not quite as serious as it sounds—more like being unconscious or in a deep sleep for an extended period of time. You have no life-threatening symptoms; all your vitals are stabile, no neurological damage as far as we can tell. Basically, you’re healthy, with the exception of a hairline fracture in your right femur and a good-sized contusion on your skull. You have a head like granite, Mr. Williams. That fact probably saved your life, I might add.”

  He wanted to ask what he meant by this, but sensed that it was best to allow Dr. Sanderson to ask the questions instead; so he waited patiently as he examined him. In a few moments, he seemed satisfied with everything.

  “Okay, Mr. Williams. I’d like for you to tell me anything and everything you can remember prior to regaining consciousness.”

  He thought for a moment and then stared at the doctor blankly. “I’m afraid I can’t remember anything,” he replied, feeling a little embarrassed.

  “That’s quite alright, it’s perfectly natural,” Dr. said reassuringly. “Do you know your name?”

  “Leonard A. Williams—but I cheated.” he said, glancing at his wrist.

  Dr. Sanderson chuckled. “Okay, that’s fair. I’m going to have to cheat a little myself, here,” he said and then opened a manila folder he was holding in his hand.

  “Leonard Allen Williams,” he read. “Born on December 28th, 1952 at Smithtown General Hospital, Ohio. Parents Leonard Allen Williams Senior, and Jane Louise Schuler Williams. Brother Charles, and sister Lydia. Attended Rosemont Elementary, Garfield Junior High, and graduated from Mckinley High School in 1970. Attended Ohio University in Athens, Ohio through your junior year and then dropped out. Any of this ringing a bell, Leonard?” he asked hopefully.

  Lenny hesitated before replying. None of this was ringing any bells.

  “Uh, not really,”

  “That’s alright. Let’s see here. This isn’t a life history by any means—just some background information I picked up from your parents while they were here. Oh yes, I just thought of something that could be significant. Your family and friends normally call you Lenny.”

  He felt a jolt when he heard his name. Yes! He was Lenny Williams! Suddenly, fragments of his life raced through his head like a stampede of wild horses.

  “That’s it!” he exclaimed triumphantly. “I remember!”

  “Excellent, Lenny,” Dr. Sanderson said with a broad grin. “Now, can you remember the last thing that happened before you woke up here in the hospital?”

  Lenny thought back, but it was difficult. He was so relieved that he had regained his memory that he found it hard to concentrate.

  “Just a second,” he said.

  “Take your time, Lenny.”

  Lenny searched back through the haze . . .

  He’d been on a date, he remembered. Yes, with Julie. He’d been at her apartment—for dinner. He’d . . . he’d broken it off with her. Christ, he’d actually done it! But he hadn’t been as happy about it as he thought he’d be. It had been a pretty emotional experience, he remembered. Then he’d left her apartment. Went out to the street and headed for the subway station at 8th Street. He’d almost gotten there. He’d been waiting for the light to change at the corner of 6th and Broadway. It changed, and then . . . and then . . .

  He gulped. A horn blowing. Headlights. Tires screeching. Yellow blur coming from his right. Smack! Pain in his leg. Flying through the air . . .

  “Shit!” he exclaimed.

  Dr. Sanderson narrowed his eyes. “You remember?”

  “Yeah, I do. I was hit by a yellow car—a cab, maybe. I went flying through the air. I came down headfirst . . . That’s all I remember.”

  “Very good. You were struck from the right by a taxi cab. The driver had run a red light—he was cited, by the way. The emergency squad transported you here. Now Lenny, I want you to brace yourself for what I’m about to tell you.”

  Lenny swallowed hard. Here comes the bad news . . .

  Dr. Sanderson looked at him solemnly. “Do you have any idea how long you’ve been here at St. Vincent’s?”

  “No.”

  “A little more than two weeks.”

  “Two weeks?”

  “Yes, I’m afraid so.”

  Lenny gulped. Two weeks! he thought to himself incredulously. That would make it about mid-February now! Two weeks of his life had gone down the tubes!

  Suddenly, a million questions came to mind. “You mentioned my parents being here. Are they still in town?”

  “No. They flew here from Ohio immediately after being notified of your accident and stayed for nearly a week. They would have stayed longer, but I finally convinced them both that there was little they could do at the time and suggested that they return to Ohio. Your mother had been suffering from a nasty bout of flu and obviously needed her rest. I promised them both that I would personally notify them the moment your condition changed; assuring them that it was just a question of time before you regained consciousness.”

  Mom must be worried sick, Lenny thought. “Is it okay if I call them?” Lenny asked Dr. Sanderson.

  “Certainly, if you feel up to it. But you need your rest; so I suggest that you make it as brief as possible.”

  Lenny suddenly felt suspicious. “When can I go home, Doctor?”

  Dr. Sanderson looked at him pensively. “Well, that depends. You’re going to need some physical therapy, no doubt about that. Your muscles are considerably atrophied, and are going to have to be exercised. My guess would be a couple of weeks, depending on your progress.’

  Lenny’s heart sank. “You’re kidding me!”

  The doctor shook his head. “I’m afraid not, Lenny. You’ll know what I mean once you’ve seen what it’s like trying to stand up. Your legs are going to feel like they’re made out of rubber. And your arms are going to feel almost as bad. Fortunately, they have an excellent physical therapy program here at St. Vincent’s and you’ll be receiving the best care possible.”

  Great, Lenny thought. I’m a fucking gimp! How in the hell am I going to be
able to hang around here for another two weeks?

  Dr. Sanderson read his disappointment. “Relax, Lenny. It won’t be that bad. Just look on the bright side. Things could have been much worse.”

  Lenny knew what he was implying. “I realize that now, Doctor. I’m just not very good at sitting around doing nothing.”

  He smiled at him queerly. “Oh, don’t worry about that, Lenny. You’re going to be a very busy young man for a while. Physical therapy is no picnic, believe me!” He glanced at his watch and then said, “I’m afraid I’d better be going. Why don’t you give your parents a call and then get some sleep. I’ll check back on you later this afternoon.”

  “Okay,” Lenny sighed. “What time is it, by the way?”

  “Almost eleven A.M.” he replied. He looked at the nurse. “Why don’t you help him with his call, Brenda. Then see that he gets some sleep.”

  “Okay, Doctor,” she replied.

  “I’ll see you later, Lenny,” he said and then turned and left the room.

  “Thanks, Doc,” Lenny called after him.

  “Would you like some more water, Lenny?” Brenda asked, returning to the side of the bed.

  “Yes, please.”

  She held the glass to his lips and he drank. It was a little easier this time. When he was finished, she set the glass down and picked up the telephone. “What’s your parent’s telephone number?”

  Lenny recited the number and she dialed and then placed the receiver to his ear. After two rings, his father answered.

  “Hi, Dad—it’s me.” he said through the mouthpiece.

  “Well I’ll be . . . Hello, son! This is sure a nice surprise!”

  “It is for me, too.”

  “When did you come around?” he asked excitedly.

  “About forty-five minutes ago, I guess,” Lenny replied.

  “How do you feel?”

  “Pretty tired. I also feel like I’ve been encased in cement for about a year, but other than that, I feel okay.”

  “Well, you’ve sure had your mother and I worried. I’m sorry we aren’t there right now, son, but your doctor seemed to think that we were of little use being there and we finally had to agree with him. Your mother was pretty sick, too, and he seemed almost as concerned about getting her home and in bed as he was about you.”