Amanda's Eyes
Authors: Kathy Disanto
Kathy DiSanto
Amanda’s Eyes
Text copyright © 2012 Kathy DiSanto
All Rights Reserved
Cover design by Tatiana Vila
For Leo and Nick, with all my love
the outward appearance, but the LORD looks on the heart.
1 Samuel 16:7
He seemed like such a nice guy.
Famous Last Words
September 2075
In the beginning, it was pitch
black.
And there was pain. But distant,
like a memory. Or a threat, prowling the far reaches of the darkness.
Weightless. Suspended in the void.
No up, no down. Nowhere.
Beyond the blackness, time passed.
Snatches of sound began to drift in. Patchy. Disconnected. A rhythmic,
pneumatic sigh. Hollow beep. Voices murmuring words without context.
“Count … three .... ”
“Family .... outside ....”
“Lucky ....”
“ .... dead .... ”
A warm touch, tenderly reaching
through the darkness. A whisper. Close, very close.
“… going to be all right ... fine
... listen ... mother now.”
Listen to your mother now.
Hours crept by. Mental synapses
sputtered dimly to life as the brain began to reboot. Thought sparked,
flickered, died. Cut in again. Shorted out. Coalesced laboriously, one
syllable at a time.
The memory came together in fits and
starts—a kaleidoscope of disjointed fragments and gaping holes, arranging, then
rearranging, until the pieces finally fell into place. At long last, a scene
unspooled against the blackness, like a movie in a darkened theater.
“A
police reporter
, Amanda Joy?”
She shook her head, giving her blue eyes that where-did-I-go-wrong roll that
still managed to make me feel like I was a scabby kneed five-year-old tracking
mud across the marble floor. “Call me an optimistic old woman, but I was
hoping you would choose a more ... well, a more dignified profession.”
“Come on, Mom. Nobody would call
you old.”
“Don’t change the subject.” But she
was pleased. I could tell by the slight smile and the way she lightly touched
her glossy black chignon as she glanced around the crowded restaurant.
Lunch at the extremely pricey
Henri’s was Mom’s idea, billed as a girls-only celebration of my brand-new
college degree. If I had been in my right mind, I would have shut my trap and gone
along for the eats and used Dad as a buffer. Told him and let him tell her.
Less flack for me that way. But under the influence of that post-commencement
high and further intoxicated by raspberry grilled salmon, basmati rice, and
steamed vegetables, telling Mom about my new job seemed like a good idea. Now
I was in for it.
“We were discussing your poor choice
in career tracks,” she reminded me.
“I’ve wanted to be a reporter since I
was sixteen. You know that.”
“Yes,” she said, deliberately
studying her flawless manicure. The violet nail polish matched her
off-the-shoulder silk blouse. A delicate bracelet—diamonds strung like tiny,
winking stars—glittered when she flexed her wrist. Her eyes lifted again.
“But I had deluded myself into thinking that was a phase. I hoped you might
grow out of it.”
“Before or after I got my degree in
journalism?”
She shot me a look. “Don’t rub it
in. I was wrong, and I admit it. Still, if you’re determined to be a
reporter, why not choose a more conservative approach for once in your life?”
“Like what, for example?”
“Oh ...” She considered briefly,
head tilted to one side. “Like the society page.”
“Mom. This is me, Amanda,
remember? Can you honestly see me in three-inch heels, playing nice with the
rich and famous?”
“You would break your neck,” she
sighed.
“If I didn’t die of boredom first,”
I agreed, forking up a hefty bite of Henri’s world-famous Chocolate Thunder
Cake.
Her unlined forehead creased in
thought for a moment. When her expression brightened, I braced myself.
“Politics! It’s perfect! And if
you were assigned to cover the Assembly, you could see your father more often.
I’m sure we can make it happen! Hal must have some media connections who would
hire you in—”
I pointed my fork. “Nice try, but
no. I mean it, Mom, stay out of this. If you and Dad have your way, I’ll be a
talking-airhead by morning. One more rich kid living off her connections.
Nobody would take me seriously, not even me. I want to make a difference.”
“But a
police reporter
? Good heavens,
Amanda, nobody likes those people! They’re ....” She hesitated, obviously
searching for a sufficiently damning turn of phrase. “Brash. Tactless.
Headstrong and reckless!”
Trying not to laugh, I held my arms
out to my sides. “Remind you of anyone you know?”
That earned me a glare and a
ladylike growl of frustration. “I blame your brothers for that.”
“You wish. Jim, Kev, and Bri didn’t
force me to act like one of the guys. The truth is, they couldn’t keep me from
tagging along.”
“Maybe,” she conceded reluctantly,
then her gaze filled with concern. “This could be dangerous, Amanda. Please
reconsider.”
I should have listened to my mother.
“I’ll tell her you said so.”
A man’s voice, quietly amused,
quickly swallowed by the resurgent void. Touch again, a gentle but insistent
prodding.
“Oh, no you don’t. Time to wake up,
Ms. Gregson.”
The mind stirred unwillingly, groped
groggily, struggled sluggishly to process emerging data.
Dark. Unbelievably dark.
Pain crept closer, prompting a moan
of protest.
“Atta girl! Let me see you move
your legs. Come on, Ms. Gregson, move those long legs.”
The long legs in question shifted obediently
as the drift toward consciousness picked up speed. Signals started to trickle
in from the body, none of them pleasant: thick, cottony tongue; heavy, inert
limbs; one arm stiffly immobile. Pain. Everywhere.
The eyelids that should have fluttered
open at that point didn’t.
“Can’ ....” The thought tailed
away.
“Say again? Hey!” More prodding.
“Don’t fade out on me. The Tramadine I added to your drip should be bringing
you around pretty quickly now. Talk to me, lady.”
Fumbling for the errant thought.
“Can’ ... open m’eyes.”
“Okay, still with us. Good enough.
As for not being able to open your eyes …. They’re …. The upper part of your
face is bandaged.”
“M’face?” The tremor of
concern—weak, muffled, and distant—danced away before it fully registered.
“Yeah. Not to worry, though.
You’ll be fine.”
A dry swallow as awareness continued
to flood in. “Thirsty.”
“I’m sure you are.” The unseen
stranger picked up my wrist, his touch reaching through the merciful mists of
oblivion, to drag me farther into the throbbing here and now. He took my pulse
swiftly and expertly, laying my hand back on the bed and giving it a
sympathetic pat. “No fluids allowed yet, I’m afraid, but I’ll get you some ice
chips as soon as the doctor answers my page and gives the okay. Meanwhile,
let’s raise your head up a bit. We don’t want you going back under, do we?”
Speak for yourself, buster.
I was, indeed, coming around
quickly. But the more awake I got, the more I could feel; and the more I could
feel, the better “going back under” sounded. Besides, I had figured out where
I was, and I wasn’t happy about it.
“Hospiddle,” I groaned.
“Right. UCSF Mount Zion.”
I hate hospitals. Not that I had
ever needed one before, but I’ve visited enough of them in the line of duty to
learn all I need to know. Hospitals are full of sick, hurt people with stories
guaranteed to break your heart. Pale, rumpled relatives roam the hallways and
hover in cramped waiting rooms like apprehensive-yet-hopeful ghosts, their
bloodshot eyes constantly searching for some bearer of glad tidings.
Meanwhile, so-called angels of mercy stalk the same halls, looking for any
excuse to
practice medicine
. Based on my observations, I would define
practicing
medicine
as inflicting pain and discomfort on helpless people who already
have their fair share of both. Thanks, but no thanks, has always been my
attitude toward hospitals.
Except nobody was asking my opinion
as the bed hummed quietly, elevating my upper body. I felt the mattress
contours silently readjust to cradle me in my new position.
“So, our patient is awake.” A new
voice—smooth, rich alto. “How long?”
“Started coming out of it about five
minutes ago, Doctor Ramirez,” replied the nurse. “She says she’s thirsty. Now
that you’re here, I’ll go get her some ice chips, if that’s all right with
you.”
“That will be fine, Dennis. While
you’re at it,” added the woman, “call down to her brothers and call her parents
at the hotel.”
“Which hotel?”
“The Les Grandes. They went back to
their room shortly after midnight to catch a few hours of sleep. Tell the
family she’s awake and can have visitors.” She sounded close now, right next
to the bed.
“Fam’ly?” I interjected weakly.
“Yes, your family is here. Your
parents and two brothers flew in from the East Coast five days ago. Another
brother arrived from Los Angeles the same day. I take it that’s everyone?” I
must have nodded, because she said, “Quite a crowd. They were here around the
clock, taking turns at your bedside while you were on the fourth floor. After
we moved you into this room late last night, I was finally able to convince the
Senator to take your mother back to the hotel to get some rest. Your brothers
I only managed to chase as far as the cafeteria.”
I was completely disoriented, unable
to see, and had one foot still in LaLa Land, but this was beginning to sound
serious.
“Wha’—“ I ran my fat, gummy tongue
over dry, cracked lips and tried again. “Wha’ happen’d?” Then, with the
closest thing to urgency I could muster, “Why’m I here?”
She laid a gloved hand on my left
forearm, her touch steady and reassuring. “Amanda, listen to me. I know you
have questions, and I intend to answer them as soon as I’m convinced you’re
aware enough to understand what I tell you. Right now, I’m going to check your
vitals and scan for signs of infection. While I do that, I want you to answer
some questions. We don’t want you to fall asleep again. All right? Good.”
She checked my pulse. “What’s your name?”
“‘Manda.”
“Your
full
name.”
“’Manda. Joygregson.” But because I
slurred the last two into one word, and getting it right struck me as
important, I tried again. “Joy. Gregson.”
“Parents’ first names?”
“Hal an’ Ruth.”
“How old are you?”
“Thirdy-two.”
She pulled back the blanket. Her
fingers gently explored my abdomen. “You stay in shape. How?”
How? Oh, yeah. “Run.”
“Can you tell me what you do for a
living?”
“Reporter.”
“Well, you may not be up to complex
sentences yet,” she said, tugging the covers back into place, “but I’ve heard
enough to rule out global amnesia. Ah, here’s Dennis with your ice chips.”
Something nudged my lips—a plastic
spoon. I opened wide and felt two blessedly icy disks slide onto my parched
tongue.
“Don’t chew,” warned the invisible
nurse. “Let ‘em melt.”
Way easier said than done when
you’re practically dying of thirst, but I managed, rolling the rapidly
shrinking chips around in my mouth. All too soon, they were nothing but a cool
aftertaste. I opened again, instinctively trusting Dennis to be on the ball
and shovel in two more. He didn’t let me down.
“Pain?” asked Doctor Ramirez.
No, thanks. I’ve got plenty.
She had moved to the other side of
the bed, and I automatically turned my head toward the sound of her voice, only
to be rudely reminded I couldn’t see her. That was when it suddenly dawned on
me. If I couldn’t see these people, I had no way to prepare myself for
whatever they might be planning to do to me. My fight or flight response shot
right off the scale as I realized I was absolutely defenseless, completely at
their mercy.
And as anyone with a lick of sense
knows, doctors don’t
have
any mercy.
It was enough to make me gag on my
ice chips.
I coughed, “What?”
“Do you have pain? If you do, can
you describe it? How would you rate it on a scale of one to ten, one being mild
and ten being unbearable?”
I could hardly hear her over the
roar in my head. I felt like I was trapped in one of those nightmares where
you
know you’re going to die if you don’t wake up
. So you try to claw your way
out of the dream, willing your eyelids to open, but you can’t, and they won’t.
Except this nightmare was no dream, because you don’t feel pain in dreams, and
my head was pounding like “The Anvil Chorus.”
“Relax, Amanda.” The doc stroked my
arm. “You’re going to hyperventilate. Take a deep breath, let it out slowly
... that’s right, all the way out. Again. Good. I know this is difficult,
and you must be frightened. But trust me, you’re going to be fine.”
“I wanna see.”
Great. My first complete sentence
was a whine.
“And you will. Soon. But first
things first, all right? I need you to relax and focus. The scanner and
monitors can tell me a great deal, but they can’t describe your pain. You’ll
have to do that yourself.”
Nothing like a massive surge of
adrenaline to sharpen the old thought processes, right? My brief panic attack
catapulted me to complete lucidity. Forcing myself to draw another calming
breath, I concentrated on answering the doc’s question.
“Five,” I finally estimated
unsteadily. “Except here.” I reached up to touch the bandages swathing my
head, finally registering the IV running into the back of my shaky hand.
“How bad is your headache?”
“Eight, maybe. Going on nine.”
“All right, hold on. I’m going to
add a medication to your IV that will help.” I heard her move around the bed,
felt her gloved fingers lightly grasp the catheter taped to my left hand. A
second later, coolness flooded my vein. “There. The pain should start to ease
quickly now.”
“Thanks.” I straightened my head on
the pillow. “Sorry about the sniveling.”
“Under the circumstances, I’d say
you’re entitled to a snivel or two,” Doctor Ramirez decided, as her fingers
lightly checked my headgear.
Okay, so maybe not
all
doctors are heartless fiends.
“Yeah, well, I’ll try to hold it to
a minimum just the same.” I licked my lips. “Could I please have some more
ice?”
“You bet,” said Dennis. “Say, ‘Ah.’”
“Ahhh.”
“Sort of reminds me of a baby bird,”
drawled a deep voice.
“It’s the mouth,” added another.
