Chapter Twenty
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She couldn’t remember why she was afraid—only that she was terribly afraid and alone. Then with time, the dark and cold that enveloped her being began to dissipate. She heard music and felt warmth. Keeping her eyes shut, the darkness continued, but the familiar music grew louder and more comforting. Bette Midler sang Wind Beneath My Wings. Claire remembered that her mom loved that song. She’d turn up the radio and sing every word. Mom used to say, “It isn’t about the sound of your voice, but the happiness that makes you sing.”
“Shirley, do you know where my wallet is?” Jordan called from down the hall.
“Mom, Claire, took my Pop-Tart.” Emily’s voice sounded different, so young.
Claire opened her eyes and saw a scene, like a movie, except she was there and not there. She also saw her mom, dad, and sister. Claire watched herself, but the Claire she saw was young—maybe five or six-years-old. Their small house was chaotic and full of affection.
She watched as her mom made Emily another Pop-Tart, scolded Claire, and gave her a loving kiss on top of her head. Dad walked into the kitchen wearing his police uniform. Claire couldn’t believe how young everyone looked, how warm and full of love she felt watching this scene from her childhood. Dad walked behind Mom and put his arms tenderly around her. She noticed Emily and Claire playing with one another and their breakfast. They weren’t seeing the devotion and adoration Claire now saw between her parents. Mom giggled as Dad kissed her neck, and she handed him his wallet from the kitchen counter. He whispered in her ear, Claire strained to hear. “What would I ever do without you?”
“Well, you aren’t going to get the chance to find out. I plan on sticking around forever.”
As they looked at one another, the two little girls at the table started to distract them with their giggling, bickering, and suddenly the spilling of a glass of orange juice. Little Emily and little Claire both became silent, neither one would tell on the other. Claire heard her dad’s voice, “Girls, see what happens when you mess around.” His voice wasn’t angry. He cleaned the juice with a paper towel and Mom helped with a wet cloth. “Try to be careful, you sillies.” He kissed their foreheads as he turned to leave, taking the time to hug their mom.
The scene began to fade. Claire didn’t want to leave the warm feeling. She took one last look at the sisters eating their cereal and laughing. The spilled juice is forgotten. The darkness returned—coolness—
“Ms. Claire—Ms. Claire, can you hear me?” Although the familiar voice teemed with concern, the warmth she felt from her childhood was gone. Claire didn’t want to go to the voice—she wanted to go back—she wanted more sleep, more tranquility…
“Come on, Claire, the movie starts in half an hour,” Grandma’s voice came from the bottom of the stairs.
Claire opened her eyes and wondered where she was. It was her grandparent’s house. She must be staying over. Now she wondered if Emily was there too. She could see herself, no longer a child but an awkward teenager. Grandma called up the stairs again, “Claire, your sister said she’ll pick you and your friend up—hurry down.” Grandma’s expression reflected concern for Claire’s movie. The real Claire wondered if the teenage Claire would see Grandma’s distress.
Young Claire stomped down the stairs. “Fine, I’m ready, but I called Amy, and now she can’t go. I don’t want to see A Bug’s Life with Emily. John will be there. He’ll think it’s stupid.”
“Let’s call Emily, and we’ll tell her Grandpa, you, and I are going to the movies.” As Claire watched she prayed her counterpart would accept Grandma’s offer. She also wondered her age, probably fourteen or fifteen-years-old. Then she remembered Grandpa died when she was fourteen-years-old, so if he was going to the movies she had to be younger. Teenage Claire made a face at her grandmother’s suggestion.
“Where are we going?” Grandpa’s green eyes shone and his voice boomed jovially as he joined them from the other room. Claire’s heart ached to see her grandparents, yet at the same time it swelled with affection.
“To the movies,” Grandma said, smiling at Grandpa. Her grandparents were having an entire conversation through their sparkling eyes and facial expressions. Young Claire didn’t notice—too self-absorbed.
Grandpa put his arm around Claire. “Great, I’ve been trying to get Grandma to go to the new Lethal Weapon. You know I love me some police drama.”
Grandma smiled at him. “Oh no, that’s rated R. Claire would rather see Ever After.”
They were doing it—pulling Claire out of her funk. She wasn’t budging willingly—but they were doing it.
“Oh, no, Grandma, I don’t want to see Ever After—it’s a Cinderella story—that’s stupid.” Grudgingly, smiling at Grandpa, she said, “I want to see Mel Gibson’s butt!”
Her grandparents smiled at one another and continued the amorous charade. “I don’t think Shirley and Jordan will approve”—Grandma said as she grabbed the newspaper—“Let me look at the movie times for Ever After.”
Teenage Claire looked over her grandma’s shoulder. “Grandpa, Lethal Weapon starts in twenty minutes. If we hurry we can make it.” Her sulking forgotten, she believed she’d just gotten her way.
Claire filled with warmth as she watched herself be lovingly manipulated.
Grandma next words surprised Claire. “Hey, I’m going too. I don’t want to miss Mel’s butt.”
Just before the scene began to fade, Claire saw Grandma winked at Grandpa. The last thing she saw was the three of them going out the door to the movie.
Claire wondered why she hadn’t remembered this before. Then she realized, it wasn’t unusual. She was raised by an amazing family with unconditional love and consideration. Somewhere along the way, she’d forgotten how that felt—a warmth which surrounded everyone within a happy aura. The darkness returned as Claire clung to the sense of serenity and warmth.
Gradually, the darkness intensified, and the warmth melted away. In the cool darkness she heard voices again. She waited.
“Claire, talk to us. Open your eyes.” It wasn’t a command. Tony’s desperate voice was requesting.
She didn’t want to open her eyes. She wanted to feel the warmth—to sleep.
“Ms. Nichols, Ms. Nichols.” The deep unfamiliar voice no longer spoke to her, but to someone else. “We’ll need to begin intravenous feeding if she doesn’t regain consciousness soon. The medicine to keep her unconscious should be out of her system. She’s responding to some commands, but we can’t be sure of her condition until she fully wakes. Sometimes the body will do this on its own—shut itself down to heal and to avoid the pain.” There were voices and then she heard the unfamiliar one speaking again. “Her pain seems to have subsided with the medication. It should help her wake.”
Claire didn’t want to listen to them anymore or know who they are talking about. She just wanted to sleep, to feel warm, and go back to her memories.
“Get up, sleepyhead. You have a room of your own.” Claire heard her own voice. It sounded happy and playful; however, she couldn’t see herself or to whom she spoke.
“But, I like this room better. I like this bed better,” the other voice teased and laughed.
“Really, a twin bunk bed? That’s what you like?” They both giggled.
“As long as you’re here.” Claire saw the two of them, a big mound under the covers, laughing and playing. As the covers moved she recognized herself and Simon—Simon Johnson. She hadn’t thought of him in years. She’d made herself compartmentalize him away.
Their hair disheveled, they looked too young for such activities. This was her freshman dorm room.
“Claire, I want to marry you.”
“Yeah, right.” She didn’t believe him. Her plans didn’t include marriage. Young Simon, however, meant every word he said. Now as Claire watched she wondered—what if?
“No, really. We can wait until we’re through school or we can run away today. I’m not busy—how about you?” He pretended to be playful, but his tone held more than a hint of sincerity.
“Give me a rain-check, okay?” Claire nibbled his ear. “I think my dad might be upset if I decide to throw away a year of school to get married during spring semester.”
“I want to marry you—not stop your dreams—we can still finish school and you can be a famous meteorologist.” Simon didn’t get upset. He smiled tenderly and continued, “A famous meteorologist named—Claire Johnson.” He playfully nibbled her ear and let her take a turn on his. They lay in that little twin bunk bed and talked for hours.
As Claire watched memories flooded her consciousness. The two of them had shared so much of themselves, their dreams, ambitions, troubles, failures, hopes, and accomplishments. Nothing could stop the mutual admiration and affection of their first love. She watched as they finally got out of bed and dressed—wearing sweatpants and Valparaiso University sweatshirts. Claire put her hair in a ponytail.
Looking at her now, Claire chastised herself. She needed a shower—some make-up—and definitely a brush. Simon didn’t notice—compliments came between hugs and kisses. He told her he thought she looked beautiful and doted on each word. They were both completely in love. They discussed the finer dining establishments near campus—Taco Bell, McDonald’s, Pizza Hut, or Wendy’s.
With a warm loving kiss they mutually decided it would be Taco Bell—No pretense—no rules—only warmth and an undying need to be together. As they left the dorm room, Claire looked at the mess—clothes on the floor, bed unmade, a pizza box next to the trash can—and she saw the comforts of home.
The scene vanished, fading to black—the feeling of love remained.
After watching, all she thought—please don’t fade. I want to keep this going. However, it did—it faded.
Slowly, the scene evaporated—slipped away into cool darkness. Claire felt so cold. She wanted a blanket, something, anything with heat—please! She’d beg if necessary. The cold was so—cold! Her body trembled uncontrollably.
“Claire, the doctor said you may be able to hear us when we talk. Catherine and I’ve been talking to you for days—for over a week. He said you’ll wake up when your pain decreases and you’re ready. Please be ready soon. This liquid crap they’re putting in your arm may have nutrients, but you’re wasting away. Catherine has had the cook prepare all the foods you like—every day—just in case you wake and want something.” Tony’s voice sounded close. She sensed his distress and concern.
Claire had to wonder, if I open my eyes will he be right there. Did he say over a week? I have been asleep for over a week? How did that happen? Why was a doctor here? Claire couldn’t remember the whys or how, all she could remember were her parents, her grandparents, her sister, and Simon. Those memories filled her with hope and promise, and yet Tony sounded like he needed her.
She knew she needed to go to Tony. She didn’t want to make him wait, but she was so tired and weak. Maybe a little more rest before she opened her eyes. Someone must have put blankets on her because she felt warmer. Along with the warmth Claire felt the stiffness of her dress—it was sea foam green. She was seeing herself in a full length mirror as Emily watched. They were in a big dressing room.
“I love it!” Emily observed Claire from all sides. “It’s perfect for my wedding.”
“Seriously, Em, you want me to wear green?” Claire’s tone sounded joking—it wasn’t. She remembered not liking the dress, but of course she would wear it, if that was what Emily wanted.
“Yes. With your eyes, it’s stunning.” Claire watched the two sisters and again became self-critical, the Claire she saw looked too heavy and her hair was too thick and bushy. Emily was seeing someone different as she played with Claire’s hair, twisting it and talking, “With your hair up and some dangly earrings—I know you can wear Grandma’s necklace—it has a pearl, and I’ll wear Mom’s strand of pearls. They’ll look great! That will be my something old. You’ll almost be as pretty as me.”
The mention of Grandma’s necklace triggered something sad, yet Claire couldn’t remember why the sadness came. She couldn’t seem to remember—
Emily, being three years older than Claire, was the bride, and yet she also had the responsibilities of the mother-of-the-bride. Their mother should have been there, but she wasn’t. The girls only had each other. It was Emily’s wedding, yet she encouraged Claire.
Claire smiled at her sister and her green eyes sparkled. “Yeah, you wish. I just want you to know John secretly loves me! We wanted to tell you—but you know?”
“Honey, he isn’t secretive about that. He loves you—you’re his little sister.”
“Yeah, I know. I have to beat the men off with sticks. Okay, I’ll wear green, but for my wedding I’m finding you the gaudiest bubblegum, pink dress you’ve ever seen!” The two sisters laughed. Emily helped Claire out of the dress and they continued their shopping. They had so many things to do before the wedding. Together they’d do it all.
Just like the little girls with the juice, they were there for one another. After their parents died it was the two of them against the world. John understood and never tried to come between them. Even when Claire moved in with them as newlyweds, they welcomed her.
Briefly Claire saw their home in Troy, New York. Not large—it could be better described as crowded. Seeing it again, from afar, filled Claire with affection and warmth. John worked long hours, and Emily had her teaching responsibilities, but they still managed to make Claire feel welcome. She suddenly wondered if she’d ever thanked them. She couldn’t remember…
The scenes faded faster now. The warmth and strength evaporated. The blackness returned and pulled her in. Claire instinctively wanted to get away from the blackness.
The serenity transformed into coldness. She opened her eyes and saw it—the cold blackness staring back at her. She gasped and closed her eyes, but then she heard the voices coming from different directions. “Claire, are you awake?”
“Ms. Claire, please come back to us.”
Tony spoke fast, “She opened her eyes. I saw it—just a second ago”—she felt his hand on hers—so warm compared to the cold—“Can you hear me?” He continued speaking to Catherine, “Go get the doctor. He’s getting something to eat in the kitchen. Let him know she’s finally waking.” With a different tone, one of desperation and affection, he pleaded, “Claire, please open your eyes.”
Do you know what happens to scar tissue? It’s the strongest part of the skin
—Michael R. Mantell