Till the storm passes

Chapter 6: The Nutcracker Op 71

I jerk awake. I'm lying in a hospital bed and someone is taking a mask off my face. What the fuck? My entire body aches from whiplash.
"Sir you need to lie still," a nurse is pushing me back down as I try to move. My head is spinning. I'm in a hospital monitors are beeping. And I can hear the din of people talking in the background. I'm an in ICU.
"Where am I?" I ask, voice shaking.
"You're in a hospital, you were in a severe car accident," the nurse says, beckoning more people.
"What? Who brought me here?" I ask, staring around.
"An ambulance, you need to lie down," the nurse says, nicely, as he adjusts some monitors.
"What? When? No where am I—,"
"You're in Seattle. What's your name?"
"Rick Weston. I live in West Seattle off of Ballard—I don't have amnesia," I say despite possibly having amnesia. 
"Good that's good, you need to rest now," the nurse says.
"How long was I out?" I ask, lying back down, as he fixes an IV I tangled.
"Two days. You've been in a coma."
No.
No.
Oh my god.
"I was—I was pulled out of my car?" I ask, slowly, "I wasn't—nearly murdered by a river—oh fuck me."
They weren't trying to kill me. They weren't trying to kill me.
"Do you—did they contact my brother?" I ask.
"I'm not sure who called your next of kin. There's going to be a social worker coming around, right now you need to rest."
I lie back in the bed. That wasn't a dream. Was that a dream? Goddamn it. A river. Just this one. The children giggling that the house was haunted.
"Was I brain dead?" I demand, the moment a doctor comes in.
"We had almost no brain activity, that's why you need to take it easy—,"
"I was dead the whole time," I breath.
"Medically you were in a coma, sometimes that's what the body needs to heal—,"
"Fuck," and I was suspicious the whole time. And they were literally helping me. He sent me back. He decided to send me back.
"Sir your next of kin at your place of work was a former girlfriend? She didn't provide any other details—,"
"My brother wasn't called? Good. Good," I don't want him to worry.
"We can contact him for you—,"
"No it's fine, just, give me my phone."
They give me my phone eventually.
I have a serious concussion and they advise so many follow up appointments. But in a few days I am going to be okay to go home since I feel steady enough. My one arm is in a sling and I have physical therapy for almost every part of my body. But. Otherwise I'm cleared to go.
Every minute is a daze. They gave me my anxiety medication. But it's only half helping. I don't want it to be true but I also don't know what to think.
I text Sean asking him to call him. Then I just call him.
""Hey—where are you?" Sean asks. There's hospital noises in the background.
"I was in a—small car accident, wanted to let you know I was okay."
"Jesus are you all right? Where were you going I didn't know you left the house?"
"Just for a drive I'm um—I'm fine are you—good?" I ask.
"Yeah we're still at Disney, you sure you're okay? How bad was it?"
"Just—the car is banged up I'm all right," I say, omitting the coma part.
"Okay well let me know if you need anything."
"I will, thanks."
I need something but I don't know what. They are going to release me from the hospital so long as I am okay. I am not okay but I convince them I am. They stipulate someone has to pick me up, not an Uber or a taxi. I don't know anyone who can give me a ride so I pay an Uber driver to pretend to know me. Special thanks to Jamal who for the $20 tip, delivered an Emmy award winning performance.
"Thank you so much," I whisper, as he embraces me.
"I'm a theater major, I got this," he says, patting my back, "UW."
"You deserve a 4.0 GPA."
"Thanks man."
He drives me home and offers to come back and give me a lift back to the hospital for therapy. I program him in phone as a preferred drive and tip him double.
I have dozens of missed calls. I charge my phone and pace. That's painful. I sit down.
My laptop battery is on 1% I charge that too.
And I find myself googling 'vivid dreams in comas'.
The answer is yes and no. Since I recovered it's more likely my brain wasn't too damaged to where I couldn't dream. And yet. Usually it's more, ah, dreamlike. A repeating nightmare. Something of the outside world.
Not a made up house I've never been to and a frankly weird cast of characters. Yet I was in a coma. That's all. I read all the time I have a very vivid imagination it's really no wonder.
I sigh, putting my hands to my face, and leaning back on the sofa, painfully. I'm too stressed I cannot handle figuring out who towed my car the hospital social worker gave me a number to call I'm too pained to call it.
I move my hands back. And I look down at my fingers.
The paper cut.
There's a long, thin paper cut, on my right index finger. Mostly healed now. But still a thin white line.
"Paper snowflakes," I whisper, staring at it.
Is that proof? That's proof. What's more. If—what I am thinking. Which is frankly crazy, is true. Then. Hazel Torry.
Charlie's voice, shaking, "What if she'd died?"
I open my laptop. And I do something I've thought of every other week. And never had the courage to do.
I type in 'Hazel Torry'. Press enter.
A couple of people come up, some face book profiles and sponsored ads.
Hands shaking, I type in "Hazel Torry-Snohomish".
My breath catches in my throat.
Double murder.
Brian Torry set fire to his mother's trailer, killing her and his thirteen year old daughter.
The remains were identified through DNA testing. Torry was taken into custody today—
I hear a sob escape my throat.
She died that summer. She died a few weeks after she left that's why she quit answering my calls. Why didn't I see it? We didn't get a paper not back then. And we were both changing schools. No one told me. She was dead. All these years. She didn't get to grow up.
"Someday we'll both to France and see the Eiffel Tower," Hazel said, as we lay in the tree fort.
"I'll race you to the top," I said, looking at the blood on my arms.
"You'll probably win," she giggled, fussing with a crown of flowers, "There, so you can slay more dragons."
I breath in and out, hands over my face. And he knew. Of course he knew she was dead. I wonder if he remembers all of them?
I pick up my phone and go into blocked contacts. Missed calls. From Emily's number. And a couple of voice mails. I press on one.
Lucy's little voice, "Hi, um, I took my mom's phone. I just wanted to make sure you were okay and let you know I passed math um—She said I can't call you. Anyway I get a phone of my own for Christmas so I'm going to try to email you okay? Um, bye. I should go she'll be up soon."
I wipe tears from my face. And I call Emily's number.
She picks up on the third ring, "Really, Rick? New Year's Eve."
"Fuck I didn't know what day it was—,"
"You having a crisis? Do I need to call Sean?"
"No. No. God, Um yeah I'm having a crisis it's managed I just wanted to make sure you two are okay and ah—happy new year," I say, wincing.
I can hear Lucy bouncing in the background.
"Do you know this is pathetic?"
"Yes, I do, I do know that um, can you put Lucy on for like two seconds I want to tell her that a series that she liked is getting a new book," I say.
"She's at my moms, I'll tell her, what book is it?" Emily asks, sounding bored.
"It's this YA thing, comics, it's called 'just email me'," I wince.
"Okay I'll tell her."
"Okay um—,"
"I need to go, this isn't even a good idea, you aren't freaking out or something I will call Sean and tell him to check on you?"
"No, no, just didn't want to I don't know, um yeah, bye, take care," I say.
"Bye, Rick."
She hangs up.
I sigh, face in my hands.
"I'm losing my mind," I breath.
And that's how I end up in an actual department store. I take an Uber, not Jamal he must be at class Clarissa and her boyfriend for some reason, drive me to a sporting goods store. Some place I've never been. Doing something safe to say I never thought I'd do.
"I need to purchase a gun," I say, confidently as I can which is not at all.
"Which one do you want to look at?" The attendant asks.
"Ah—just a nine mil, that little one, I'm getting it for home defense," I googled this one the way I'm a very good customer who does not look like a future active shooter.
"Here's the forms, there's a three day waiting period," the attendant says. It's busy it's right after Christmas.
"Oh, right, yeah, I mean it's not urgent I have no plans," I say, taking the forms. Damn it. I really don't want to come back here. I turn around nearly walk directly into a large red neck. I might scream you never know.
"You looking to get a gun?" The man asks.
"Yeah," I say, slowly.
"I'm selling my old browning. It's in the back of my truck."
I would be so easy to kidnap. Also I hate this country.
Ten minutes later I Venmo the man money and I have a gun and ammo. This is bad.
I pack the gun into my bag, unloaded, safely, because I watched YouTube to prepare for this, and Uber myself home.
Back home I take another anxiety pill and drink a shot to lower my heart rate. Then I lock the door and unpack the bag.
"This is insane but, I need to know," I say, looking at the gun. I load it, one bullet because again, I learned a lot about gun safety in the past twenty four hours.
"I can't believe I'm doing this—I really need to know. And I think you'r real but—guess I'll find out," I say, cocking the gun. I put it to my temple, "I think you can hear me. And if you can't. Well looks like I'm going to the other side of the river after all. I have mental health issues and no self control."
I put my finger slowly on the trigger, muzzle of the gun still pressed against my temple.
"Okay stop, fuck," Flash is standing in front of me hands up.
I jump and lower the gun, "You—you—,"
"Calm down, do not do that," he says, holding up his hands. Still wearing the trench coat and a wide brimmed hat. Exactly like I saw him on the bank of the river.
"You—you're—," I say, slowly the putting the safety back on the gun.
"Names have power, don't—oooo what are we drinking?" He asks, walking over to my open bottle of whiskey.
"You—it was all real," I say, staring at him.
"Look, I'm on a schedule—what exactly am I here for?" He asks, picking up my drink.
"Why me? And why do I remember?" I ask, steadying myself.
"Figured it'd hurt his feelings if you didn't remember when you finally do show back up," he shrugs, pouring himself a shot.
"You brought me back," I breath.
"Yeah, you heard the Ferryman, I owe him, actually several favors. Not like the boss is gonna notice one more error in my bloody paperwork," he scoffs, "Now and then I can fudge the numbers."
"That's it? I get back my life?" I ask.
"Yeah I suppose."
"And I'm not going to see—any of you again?" I ask.
"Well not till the end. I only showed up now because you were actually going to do it and I figured he'd be pissed if you showed back up immediately," he says, pouring me a drink too. I accept.
"But why—why me this doesn't happen to people I have googled this—,"
"Look, Rickmothy I'm going to level with you here," he says, putting an arm around my shoulders, "It wasn't my idea. But the creepy-One sometimes thinks his big brother gets lonely. Spirits are diverting, you and me had a lovely time, but certain individuals are more principled than others about keep 'em around for you know, company. Certain parties, the creepy ones well you met him, Yoghurt thief with poor fashion sense—thought you'd be pleasant company for his boring brother. That's it. Again I figured you might have the memories so when you come back, he won't be disappointed and you can have a good chat anyway, eh? Fair? Right I'm probably gonna take the bottle this stuff's good—,"
"Wait," I hold up my hands as he takes my bottle of whiskey and puts both glasses in his pockets. "That's it? You're gonna go. And it's over."
"Well, till we see you again. That's the rules, like I said I ain't even supposed to be doing this," he says, picking up the gun and pocketing it to, and my wireless mouse. "I'm not much one for rules honestly and it's good to have a chat now and then too often we'd get caught it's paperwork a write up whole thing you understand."
"I know, I mean, yes of course I understand thank you—can I get like one coaster back?" I ask, as he proceeds to put them in the many pockets of his coat, "Just—one is fine."
"Oh most definitely," he says, very generously, putting one coaster back on my coffee table and taking my charger cord  and TV remote instead that's fine I guess.
"Thank you for showing up um—," I don't know what else I expected. I go to my book case, quickly, "Can you take this to—the Ferryman, for me?"
He frowns.
"Messages are, kind of your thing eh?" I ask, holding it out. Emily Dickenson, collected poems. "Please? I can pay you, beyond the contents of my coffee table and liquor cabinet."
"Oh.  You noticed."
"You've been picking up all my stuff and just putting it in your pockets, yes I noticed!"
"Very observant of you Rickjamin all right, ah yeah, fine," he takes it, "That it then?"
"Yeah—ah thank. Thank you family as well I had—a good Christmas. I know it's not your holiday but—thanks," I say.
He winks, "I'll try to be the one that comes next time eh?"
"Thanks," I smile a little.
He disappears.
I sigh, looking around my empty apartment. All my liquor's gone now. And my cups. And my remote.
I look down at the coffee table. It's not empty. In place of all my possessions, on the single coaster he replaced, is a single paper snowflake. I smile.