Surface by Stacy Robinson Page A

paper had turned a deep russet, and she held it to her nose and inhaled its rusty, metallic scent.
    A blood vessel had burst, she explained to Jackie, and blood had washed over the surfaces of Nick’s brain and into the ventricles, increasing pressure on his brain, which in turn caused part of his central nervous system to shut down. The doctor felt it could have been caused just as easily by one single snort as by an entire gram of cocaine. Claire recounted her first meeting with Dr. Sheldon, remembering how color had gone flat around her as she’d looked into the doctor’s long, thin face and asked if Nick was going to come out of this.
    “Cases like this are unpredictable, Mrs. Montgomery,” he’d told her.
    “But will he be all right? When will he wake up?” She squeezed the paper towel tightly. “Please tell me the truth.”
    Doctor Sheldon paused and looked into her eyes before speaking. “The data shows that patients in your son’s situation have a thirty percent survival rate. And there is the possibility of neurologic disability if he does survive. But he absolutely could come through this. We just can’t tell at this point.” He tried to encourage Claire by reporting some of the positive signs that Nicholas was exhibiting, his good corneal and deep-tendon reflexes. But all she heard was that Nick stood a seventy percent chance of dying.
    Nick’s strong, he’s an athlete. Those numbers can’t apply. “What happens now?”
    “The most important thing is preventing his brain from swelling. Then, once we’ve located the damaged blood vessel, we’ll most likely need to go in and remove it surgically. The neurosurgeon will make that call.”
    “I need to see my son.” Claire felt the immensity of her emotions pin her down as she attempted to stand. Dr. Sheldon took her hand and helped her to her feet, and they walked together to the ICU, his arm steadying her as they went.
    Cumbersome beeping equipment overwhelmed the small curtained room. A window to the left of the bed cast slatted moonlight onto Nick’s face. Dr. Sheldon advised her not to stimulate him with a lot of talking. “Contrary to what you see on television, it might agitate him and raise the pressure in his brain. Hold his hand and let him know you’re here. But try and keep things as relaxed as possible.”
    Claire approached the bed, one hand pinching the damp square of paper in her pocket, the other skimming the sheet alongside Nick’s motionless body. Fewer than twenty-four hours earlier she had made a reckless decision, and now that she stood before its consequences, she shuddered in disbelief. She tried to focus on Nicholas’s closed eyelids, waiting for any movement. His matted hair looked an oily shade of brown, his puffy face distorted, his mouth propped wide with tubing. She could still see tiny flakes of blood caked under the surgical tape around his nose. Larger stains dotted the white-and-blue gown near his neck. She wondered if they’d had to slice off his T-shirt, if it was sitting on the floor of the trauma room like a discarded rag. Stroking his forehead, she silently begged for him to open his eyes. The decibels of her voice rose in her head. She railed at herself. She railed at Andrew and prayed. Then, changing tracks, she squeezed Nick’s hand and whispered beautiful promises into his ear—promises of school in Denver, the family ski trip they missed that year, a river rafting week with his buddies—anything, and everything, if he would just squeeze back.
    As the night wore on Claire felt the silent influence of Dr. Hoffman, their longtime physician and chief of staff, at work behind the scenes. She watched with muted hope the frequent brain-wave tests to check for improvements, and the neurosurgeon’s physical assessments. A revolving crew of nurses checked intracranial pressure and blood pressure, tested blood glucose levels and suctioned the secretions from his mouth. By early morning, Dr. Sheldon informed