But there was one last stop, and that was going to be the hardest by far.
Ever since he’d had that lunch with Gillespie, he’d known it was coming, and he’d done everything he could think of to put it off. He’d kept going full speed ahead, getting everything organized for the trip. He’d stopped his mail delivery and his newspapers; he’d enlisted the neighbor to keep an eye on his place and run the pipes if a freeze set in. He’d spent several hours at Tacoma Camera Supply, buying every battery, lens, tripod, and flash card he might need. Sure, he had plenty of that stuff already, but on an expedition like this, in a place where there wouldn’t be any way to replace a faulty light meter or get hold of additional supplies, he wanted to be positive that he had everything he’d need. In a way, he’d welcomed all these distractions; for once, he wasn’t absorbed in his thoughts, in an endless cycle of guilt and self-recrimination. He could focus on something else, something in the future, and coming at him fast.
But in the back of his mind, that last stop had always been there, and he couldn’t delay it any longer. He was due at the Tacoma Regional Hospital.
In the coma ward.
Where he knew he was not welcome.
On the way over, he steeled himself for any possible confrontation. Kristin’s parents were almost always there, or at least one of them. But he thought if he went around dinnertime, he might not run into them. When he got to the ward, he signed in—the nurse said, “Good to see you again, Mr. Wilde. I know Kristin will be glad you’re here”—but as he walked down the hall, he wondered what that could possibly mean.
Kristin had not come out of her coma for months. Kristin, from everything the doctors had told him (even though he wasn’t a family member, and technically should not have been told) was never going to come out of her coma. The fall had been too great, the delay in treatment too long, the insult to the brain too devastating. For all intents and purposes, Kristin was already gone.
All that remained of her was what he could see—a still form, so slim it hardly raised the pale blue blanket, nestled amidst a tangle of tubes and blinking, beeping monitors. He waited outside the glass, just looking between the slats in the venetian blind. And if he allowed himself to, he could almost slip into believing she was okay. Her blond hair (which her mom washed regularly) was spread out around the pillow, her face was calm, her eyes closed. Only her complexion—once burnished by the sun—was now pale and spotty, especially around her mouth and nose. Too many tubes and instruments had been put in and taken out.
But, to his relief, there was no sign of her folks. Michael unzipped his parka and went inside, stopping only at the sound of a voice.
“Hello, stranger.”
For one shocking second, it was as if Kristin had spoken to him again, but then he turned around and saw her sister Karen, curled up in a chair in the corner.
“Didn’t mean to scare you,” she said. She had a ponderous book in her lap, probably one of her law-school texts, and to his sorrow she reminded him, as she always did, of her big sister. They looked a lot alike—same penetrating blue eyes, same straight white teeth and tousled blond hair. They even sounded similar. Everything they uttered had a wry, knowing tone to it.
“Hey, Karen.” He never knew what to say to her; he never really had. While Kristin had always been the boisterous one, the one who was constantly on the go and out of the house, Karen was the quiet, diligent student, the one who was hunkered down over the dining-room table with a scattering of textbooks and papers around her. Michael used to exchange a few words with her when he came by to get Kristin, but he always felt like he was interrupting something more important.
“So, how’s she doing?” A stupid question, he knew, but all he could think of.
Karen smiled—Kristin’s smile, the right side slightly upturned—and said, ruefully, “The same.” There was a note of resignation in her voice. “My parents just like one of us to be here nearly all the time, so I said I’d sit in while they caught the Early Bird Special at Applebee’s.”
Michael nodded, looking down at Kristin’s hand, which was lying atop the blanket. The fingers were thinner and more fragile than he recalled, and a little black thimble, a monitor of some kind, had been attached to her ring finger.
“She hasn’t had any seizures, or anything like that, all week,” Karen said. “I don’t know if that’s a good sign or not.”
What would a good sign be? Michael wondered. He knew that Kristin—the real Kristin, the alive Kristin, the Kristin who wanted to scale every peak with him and explore every forest—was never coming back. So what were they hoping for? Signs that she was finally failing? Signs that even the machines would not be able to keep her going, in a limbo state, forever?
“Okay if I sit on the bed?” he asked.