Chapter 42

I felt well, possibly better than I’d ever felt in my life before. And yet I had no physical sensory input - I couldn’t see, hear, feel, touch or smell anything. Was I still alive, was I dead, or was this something in between? Even without being able to see, I had a strong impression of all-encompassing whiteness. Here I felt safe, I felt protected. I named it my ‘White Place’.

By unknown means I became aware of another presence, but it was far, far away. As time passed, I became convinced that it was Jo. What did that mean? Were we both alive, both dead or both in some sort of limbo?

I felt a growing pressure to be somewhere else but I resisted.

Being somewhere else would be like opening the box containing Schrodinger’s cat: I would definitely be either alive or dead. I didn’t want to be dead because I wasn’t convinced there was an afterlife. But even if I were returned to the land of the living, that was also unlikely to result in a good outcome: Mr Calhoun had driven his truck into a barn instead of rushing Jo to the hospital, and I couldn’t think of a way that ended well for her. And I had disobeyed my mum, so she would be angry with me.

I missed my family and friends, but I valued the security and protection of wherever I was.

Time passed, although I had nothing to measure it by. The pressure grew and grew, but I was afraid of the consequences of leaving this safe place so I continued to resist. Until I couldn’t.

The disinfectant smell was a dead giveaway that I was in a hospital bed, and it was a very comfortable bed too. The quietness was surprising: there were none of the ubiquitous beeps and whirrs that I normally associated with being in a hospital.

I had vague memories of a dream, or was it a nightmare, but the feeling of wellness had apparently been accurate. I felt as though I could jump up and run a marathon. And I still had an awareness of the White Place and another very distant presence. Was it really Jo? If so, did that mean she was still alive?

I opened my eyes and turned my head to look around. I was in a private room and it didn’t look like my local Mountview Hospital. I could see daylight through the half-shuttered blind, so it wasn’t night time. A young woman in a nurse’s uniform was sitting reading a book. She must have heard the faint rustling when I moved my head because she looked up from the book she was reading and nearly jumped out of her skin when she saw I was awake.

The nurse quickly pulled herself together and affected a smile. “Welcome back,” she said. “How do you feel?”

“How’s Joanna?” I tried to ask, but all that came out was a hoarse croak.

“Your throat probably feels sore because you had a breathing tube down it for a while.” The nurse poured some iced-water into a sippy cup and put it in my right hand. That’s when I noticed the drip attached to my left arm. “Gently sip this while I go and fetch the doctor,” she said.

The nurse soon returned accompanied by a man in a white coat. “This is Dr Baverick, the duty registrar,” said the nurse. “Can you talk now?”

“How’s Joanna?” It was still croaky but intelligible this time.

“Absolutely incredible,” commented Dr Baverick, looking as though he’d seen a ghost.

“He’s asking about Joanna Kafkasian, Mr Kafkasian’s daughter,” explained the nurse.

“I’m sorry, I’ve heard stories but the gentlemen outside warned me that I’m only allowed to discuss your own personal health matters,” said Dr Baverick. “Dr Silverman, who’s one of the top neurologists in the country, is in overall charge of your care and I’ve paged him to let him know you’re awake.”

I was full of questions but heeded the doctor’s warning that he wasn’t supposed to tell me anything. I took another sip from the sippy cup.

“Dr Silverman will no doubt give you a thorough examination tomorrow,” said Dr Baverick, “but I’d like to do some basic checks to make sure there’s nothing to cause immediate concern. How are you feeling? Do you have a headache at all?”

“No,” I replied. “I feel great apart from a sore throat.” I couldn’t even feel the bruise I’d sustained when Jaymon Solassie had punched me in the stomach.

“Can you tell me your name?” asked the doctor.

“Kevin Arthur Randell,” I promptly replied.

“Can you tell me your date of birth?”

I supplied the requested detail.

“And do you know the date?”

I told him the last date I remembered, the Tuesday when I’d been on the mountain looking for Jo. “How long have I been here?” I added.

The doctor looked at the nurse, then took a deep breath. I think he might have told me if it hadn’t been for the presence of a witness. “I’m sorry, I think that information needs to come from someone else. Nurse, could you raise him to a sitting position please.”

The nurse didn’t look happy at that request, but she fiddled with the bed controls until she had me sitting almost upright. At one point she had to lean over me and that’s when I noticed she wore a name badge saying ‘Gayle Pruitt’. I also got a peek down her uniform and saw a very shapely cleavage. Not only did that not do anything for me, but I also didn’t feel the slightest inclination to rate her out of ten. That definitely wasn’t normal. Was I no longer a nerd? Had I actually become gay?

The doctor took my pulse and blood pressure, listened to my heart and shone his light into my eyes. “Looking good,” he said. “I’ll make sure Dr Silverman knows. Nurse, since Mr Randell is now able to take fluids and isn’t in any pain, I see no reason why the drip can’t be removed.”

“Certainly,” said Gayle. “I’ll summon one of the hospital nurses.”