by Stephen Reid Andrews
All rights reserved in the author
Chapter 3
Four
months later, I am lying in my old bedroom at my parents’ home in Freeport , Illinois
Sports
posters purchased when I was in middle school hang on the wall next to pictures
of me at various high school dances. In most of the pictures, I am standing
next to Jennifer. At the time those pictures were taken, Jennifer and I were
planning to grow old together just like the typical couple that has been
married sixty-five years after being high school sweethearts.
Baseball
Trophies line a shelf above my bed and cover my dresser. The dresser drawers
are still full of my high school wardrobe. From the state of the room, it is
apparent that my mother was in no hurry to have me get married and leave the
house. In fact, I am sure she wanted me to stay seventeen for the rest of my
life.
I am
unshaven and probably resemble a mountain man. For the past four months, I have
not moved from my bed except to eat, go to the bathroom, take an occasional
shower, go to my medical appointments, and, for a few hours each week, go
jogging or lift weights on my old weight-lifting set in the basement. During
this time, I have simply been unable to find any other reason to get out of bed
– with Jennifer gone, there has been no purpose. I didn’t even get out of bed
for more than an hour when I turned twenty-one two weeks ago.
If I
had not been as embarrassed as I was the first time I tried to walk after my
coma, I most likely would hold myself back from lifting weights or jogging. But,
when I attempted to walk for the first time again, Trevor had to hold me up on
one side, and my dad had to hold me up on the other. In the off chance I would
ever go somewhere in public. I did not want to repeat this experience. I
already feel helpless enough.
My
family has continued to treat me like a ten year old, and I decided that I at
least wanted to be treated like a ten year old that can walk. Because I have to
travel to appointments with Dr. Jensen, I’m glad I decided to learn to walk
again so my family doesn’t have to carry me to his office like an invalid.
Regardless
of the progress I’ve made, if I could disappear, I would. The depression of
Jennifer being gone has unfortunately, or fortunately, consumed me. Most of the
time, I simply lay in bed looking up at the ceiling and hoping I’ll die.
I like
to sleep because then I forget reality and dream about better things. I have
had the same dream where Jennifer gives me the gift at least one time a week
for the last month, which is every time I have had a seizure during that
period. I think that my dreams are a result of my medication, but I like the
dreams because they make it seem like I am actually with Jennifer. Even if I
can’t talk to her or touch her, the dreams seem real enough that they bring me
comfort.
Although
the intensity of my seizures has been successfully tamed by the medication, I
still seem to have my fair share of seizures. The seizures were annoying at
first, but I’m getting used to them.
Physically,
my seizures mostly consist of my muscles tensing up and losing control of my
senses. The sensation is difficult to explain, but I feel like I am somehow in
limbo between consciousness and unconsciousness – like I am zoned out. After a
while, I’ll snap out of my zoned state without knowing exactly how much time
has passed unless I looked at the clock right before the episode. I usually am
only zoned out five to ten minutes on average.
My
family says that when I have a medicated seizure, I freeze up and stare
straight ahead or my eyes glaze over like I’m a zombie. The first time it
happened my mom rushed me to the hospital, but the seizure was long over by the
time we got there. The staff told my mom it was normal and that, if I didn’t
snap out of one of these episodes after more than ten minutes, she could worry.
I am sure that I would be having more seizures if I actually left my room for
more than just doctor visits and jogging.
For the
first month after my coma, my seizure dreams – I call them seizure dreams because they feel different than my normal dreams –
were all the same. Repeatedly, I had the dream where Jennifer was giving me the
gift in the endless white room and telling me that I can’t waste time mourning
for her.
After
about a month of only having that
dream, I had a dream where I was running on an empty street with a huge dark
shadow pursuing me. Because I was out of shape from lying in my bed, the shadow
would catch me every time. Before the shadow would reach me, I would be running
towards a female jogger who seemed to get farther and farther ahead of me the
more I tried to catch her. I have no idea who the female jogger was supposed to
represent because I could not see any of her features, but before the figure
would get too far from me and before the shadow pursuing me would inevitably consume
me, I would be able to make out a series of numbers on her back: 5677999091.
Because
I figured that the dream was a result of my subconscious letting me know I
needed exercise, I decided to go running three or four times a week. I go out
at four o’clock in the
morning so no one sees me. The last thing I want is for old high school chums
to think I am back from college to be their best friend.
To my
relief, after three weeks of jogging, my dream about the shadow chasing me and
about me following the girl with the number on her back was replaced by the
dream with my wife and the gift, which is much better.
However,
when I had a seizure two nights ago, my dream of Jennifer was replaced again.
Only, this time it was swapped with the lame dream about the graveyard, the
twenty-two headstones, and the man with the scar – the dream I had in the hospital
four months ago. For the most part, the dream was exactly the same, but, when I
got to the first of the nameless headstones, something different happened. As
the dream concluded and just before I felt myself regaining consciousness, a
name – clear as the names on the other headstones – was slowly etched into the
stone’s surface. The name was Marjorie
Dunnison.
Today I
have a follow-up appointment in Chicago Chicago
is an approximately one hour and forty-five minute drive from my parents’ home
in Freeport
Trevor
is in Chicago
Knowing
that my mother will be pounding on my door in ten minutes like she did when I
was trying to sleep as a young teenager, I sluggishly drag myself out of the
double bed and rub my eyes while slouching my shoulders in defeat.
After
pausing for a minute, I pull myself to my feet and open the top drawer of the
dresser. Moving myself from drawer to drawer I dress myself in some of my high
school clothes. Although the clothes are three years out of style, they still
fit, and I don’t really care how I look.
I don’t
know exactly what my family did with all the things I accumulated over the last
two years of my life before the massacre. I think my father tried to explain to
me once that my things were in a storage shed in Chicago
Money
is not an issue for me because the life insurance policy Jennifer and I took
out on each other several months before the shooting paid out almost two
hundred and fifty thousand dollars. Two hundred and fifty thousand dollars is a
lot of money, but I would much rather have Jennifer alive than have the money.
So far,
I’ve refused to spend any of the money because I feel guilty – like spending
the money would be disrespectful to Jennifer. And besides, if my family is
going to treat me like I am ten years old, I might as well have them provide
for me like I am ten years old.
On cue,
an abrupt knock comes at the door and startles me in my thoughts.
“Dave,
are you ready to go?” my mom asks in a demanding voice. “Izzy is waiting for
you in the car.” Izzy is what my mother calls my sister – her actual
name is Elizabeth
Not in
the mood to argue with my mom today, I finish tying my tennis shoes, get up
from the end of the bed where I was seated, and move to the door. I open the
door just as my mom is about to give a second knock.
“Good
morning sunshine. It’s good to see you today,” my mom says with a mocking tone,
most likely calculated to inform me once again that she is not happy that I
never come out of my room.
I
ignore her and methodically head to the garage after grabbing my wallet from a
small table stationed awkwardly in the hall.
This will be fun, I sarcastically think to myself as I make my
way out into the garage and into the passenger side of the family sedan.
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