Friday, October 31

Christine awoke to a room full of flowers. Had she died, after all? Through a blur, she saw her mother sitting next to the bed, and Christine knew immediately that she was, in fact, still alive. Certainly the blue and pink jogging suit her mother wore would never be acceptable attire for heaven—or hell.

“How are you feeling, Christine?” Her mother smiled and reached for Christine’s hand.

Her mother was finally letting her hair go gray. It looked good. Christine decided to tell her later when a compliment would come in handy to combat the inquisition.

“Where am I?” It was a stupid question, but after the hours of delusions, hallucinations—whatever they were—she needed to know.

“You’re in the hospital, dear. Don’t you remember? You just got out of surgery a little while ago.”

Surgery? Only now did Christine notice all the tubes going in and out of her. In a moment of panic, she ripped off the covers.

“Christine!”

Her legs were still there. Yes, thank God. She could move them. There were bandages on one, but she didn’t care as long as the leg moved.

“You don’t need to catch pneumonia.” Her mother tucked the covers back in around her.

Christine raised both arms, flexed the fingers and watched the fluids drip into her veins. The pieces all seemed there and working. That her chest and stomach felt like chunks of beaten and sliced chopped liver didn’t matter. At least she was all in one piece.

“Your father and Bruce went for coffee. They’ll be so pleased to find you awake.”

“Oh, God, Bruce is here?” Then Christine remembered Timmy, and the panic began to suck all the air from the room.

“Give him a second chance, Christine,” her mother said, completely oblivious to the lack of air in the room. “This ordeal has really changed him.”

Ordeal? Was that the newest term they had given to the disappearance of her son?

Just then, Nick peeked into the room and relief swept over Christine. There was a new cut on Nick’s forehead, but the bruises and swelling around his jaw were hardly noticeable. He was dressed in a crisp blue shirt, navy tie, blue jeans and navy sports jacket. God, how long had she been asleep? If she didn’t know better, she’d think he looked dressed for a funeral. She remembered Timmy again. What exactly had her mother meant by ordeal? A new wave of pain and terror came crashing down, adding its weight to her chest.

“Hi, honey,” their mother said as Nick leaned down to kiss her cheek.

Christine studied the two of them, watching for signs. Did she dare ask? Would they only lie to protect her? Did they think she was too fragile?

“I want the truth, Nicky,” she blurted in a voice so shrill she hardly recognized it as her own. They both stared at her, startled, concerned. But she could see in Nick’s eyes that he knew exactly what she was talking about.

“Okay. If that’s the way you want it.” He headed back for the door, and she wanted to yell at him to stop, to stay, to talk to her.

“Nicky, please,” she said, not caring how pathetic she sounded.

He opened the door, and Timmy stood there like an apparition. Christine rubbed her eyes. Was she hallucinating again? Timmy hobbled toward her, and she could see the scratches and bruises, a cut on one cheek and a purple swollen lip. However, his face and hair were scrubbed clean, his clothes crisp and fresh. He even wore new tennis shoes. Had it all been a horrible, horrible nightmare?

“Hi, Mom,” he said as though it were any other morning. He crawled into the chair his grandmother held out for him, kneeling and making himself tall enough to look over the bed. She allowed the tears, had no choice, really. Was he real? She touched his shoulder, smoothed down his cowlick and caressed his cheek.

“Aw, Mom. Everybody’s watching,” he said, and she knew he was real.