Nine Days

Prologue

        My bedroom door creaked open, jarring me out of my nightmare. I sat up in bed, leaning on one elbow, peering into the darkness to see who had entered my room. As my eyes adjusted to the light, I saw my cousin stumble in and try to close the door quietly behind him.

          “Earl?”

          “Yeah Shell, it’s just me.”

          I sighed, thankful not only because the intruder was not a murderer or rapist, but also because, as usual, Earl had ignored my request to not wake me up after his nightly drunken adventure with Mike. Tonight, I was glad he woke me up. My voice squeaked slightly and my eyes started to fill with tears. “I had a nightmare,” I said, sounding like a scared child.

          In the darkness, the outline of my cousin moved closer until he was next to the bed, and then kneeled down. “It’s ok…I’m home now. Nothing will hurt you while I’m here. Move over.”

          Earl climbed on top of my bed, staying above the covers, and put his arm around me. I was still shaken by the vivid dream, and the surreal feeling of being in the dark wasn’t helping. I didn’t speak, I just lay still, trying to dissolve the fear. “What was the dream about?” he asked.

          Gradually feeling safer, I dug into my mind for details of the dream. “There was this house…an old house that my mother and I were in. But then she was gone, and you and Mike were there. And there was this little monster, maybe four feet tall, and he had a knife. He was chasing us, and he killed Mike, so you and I killed the monster. Then Mike came back to life…but so did the monster. Then he killed you, and Mike and I killed him, and you both came back to life. He killed Mike again, and we killed him…and so on.” I paused. “It sounds stupid. But it was really scary.”

          “Well, you know what that dream means?”

          “No, what?”

          “It means that no matter what happens, you can always depend on me and Mike. We’re like your protectors.”

          It was a nice sentiment, but truthfully…I wasn’t buying it. I had gotten to the point where I felt like no one could protect me from the pain I was feeling… certainly not Earl or Mike. My dream was just a manifestation of that, of the fact that I couldn’t depend on anything anymore. But I couldn’t put those thoughts into words, so I just nodded my head.

          “I know how to make you feel better,” Earl said. “Close your eyes.”

          I closed my eyes and took a deep breath, trying to relax.

          Earl’s voice took a soothing tone. “Just relax. Think about a place where you feel comfortable and safe. A place where you have no worries. Can you picture that place?”

          I tried to form a picture in my mind’s eye. Surprisingly, the place I saw was the cable television studio I used to work in. I was in the control room, and the tan and gray hues of the actual room were amplified in my vision, almost blindingly.

          “Can you see it?” Earl asked.

          “Yes,” I murmured. “I see it.”

          “Who’s there with you?”

          I looked around within my mind, scanning the room for people. There was no one there. I expected someone to walk in, someone who my subconscious would conjure up as being the one I could depend on, talk to. But no one was there.

          “I don’t see anyone.”

          “There’s got to be someone there Shell. Who do you feel the closest to? Who is there to protect you?”

          Tears started to well up in my eyes again. “There’s no one there, Earl. There’s no one there.”

Day One

          I sat up in bed abruptly, completely disoriented and not knowing what had woken me up. “What?” I asked no one in particular.

          My mother stood in my bedroom doorway, day old mascara running down her cheeks. She had a look of panic and terror on her face. “Something’s wrong with Daddy!”

          Running on instinct, I leapt out of my bed, and followed her down the hall. All traces of sleepiness were long gone. I ran into my parents’ bedroom. My father was in bed, partially covered by the sheet, with his eyes half open. He wasn’t looking anywhere, his eyes weren’t focused. His breathing was erratic and labored. He looked like he would be gone any moment. “Daddy!” I yelled, tapping his arm hard. “Daddy!!” I knew I wouldn’t have to worry about trying to remember how to do CPR, at least not yet, because he was still breathing. I ran out of the room, into the kitchen, and my mother ran back in.

          “Call…call…” She was panicking, and couldn’t remember the number for EMS.

          “I’m calling!” I grabbed the phone and dialed 911.

          “911, what is your emergency?”

          “I need an ambulance at **  Newport Avenue, first floor.” I remembered that the most important thing is to stay calm when you call 911, so you can give the operator all the information they need.

          “What is the problem?”

          “My father…he’s barely breathing. I don’t know if he had a heart attack or what.”

          “Is he unconscious?”

          “Yes!”

          “Is he breathing?”

          “Yeah, he’s breathing but it’s really, um, labored!”

          “Ok ma’am someone will be right there.”

          “Ok thank you.” I hung up the phone and stood there for a moment. My mother was still in the bedroom by the side of the bed. I knew I needed to do something but I didn’t know what. On a whim, I flung open the door and ran outside, barefoot. I had remembered seeing on television when I was younger that someone should wait outside for the ambulance in case they weren’t sure where the house was. I stood out there for what seemed like forever, but realistically was probably only a few minutes, considering that the fire station was only a mile away. The ambulance almost flew right by, but I waved my arms frantically, and they stopped short. Three men with all kinds of equipment jumped out and I ran back into the house, holding the door open for them.

          The men raced into the bedroom and shut the door behind them. At that point everything began to fall apart and get jumbled in my mind. On the outside I was as calm as could be, except for the tears in my eyes. But inside my head, I was screaming. Screaming at ghosts. My grandmother…Mr. Genest. Don’t do this! You owe me! You owe me! What I thought they owed me…I have no idea. I was emotionally unglued at that point. I picked up my dog Sassy and shut her in my room so she wouldn’t be in the emergency medical team’s way when they came out.

          At some point my mother had called her mother and told her what happened, and I think my uncle, who had heard the call for the ambulance on his scanner, called here. His wife, my Aunt Joanne, showed up here while the paramedics were still in the bedroom. All I remember was sitting behind the kitchen table, which we had moved out of the way to make room for the stretcher as it went by. I didn’t talk to anyone. Once in a while my mother would put her hand on my shoulder. The bedroom door opened long enough for us to catch a glimpse of the paramedics using a defribulator on my father.

          My mind raced. I can’t do this. You can’t let him die. There’s no way I can go on without him. No way. No way. My dog barked from behind my bedroom door. Please let this be a dream. It isn’t real. He can’t die. He can’t die.

          When the paramedics came out with my father on the stretcher, I ran down the hall to my room and pulled on some jeans and a t-shirt. I couldn’t leave that house fast enough. I wanted to be right behind the ambulance. But one of the med tech’s was asking for my father’s prescriptions and medical cards, so while my mother sorted through that stuff I just tried to keep the dog out of everyone’s way. Finally we left. The drive seemed to take forever. I’m sure I shouldn’t have been driving in the condition I was in, but my aunt didn’t offer to drive us, she just followed behind. I took wrong turns several times, and at one point I had absolutely no idea where I was. But we made it eventually.

          Once we were at the hospital we were led to a small waiting room in the ER, and served coffee. I couldn’t sit still though, and they wouldn’t let me see my father yet. So I went outside to make some phone calls. The first call was to my classmate Megan, who I was supposed to meet at school to work on a project that morning. I told her what was going on, and that I wouldn’t be in.

          The next call was slightly more emotional. I dialed the number.

          He answered. “Peter Gay.”

          “Peter…” I began to cry again. “It’s Michelle. I can’t do the game tonight.”

          “What’s wrong?”

          “I’m at the hospital. My father had a stroke. Or something.” My words started to run together.  “I don’t know but he’s unconscious and they had to shock him with that thing and I don’t know what’s going to happen to him.”

          “Oh my God. Well, I hope he’s ok. What have the doctors said?”

          “Nothing. They haven’t really talked to us yet.”

          “Ok…well I’ll talk to Loren about tonight. I take it you won’t be doing cable radio tomorrow either?”

          “Um…probably not. I mean, it depends on what happens. If you can’t get someone else let me know.” I wanted to be fair to Peter but in the back of my mind I already knew I wasn’t going to do the next day’s game whether he found someone else or not.

          “Ok, I’ll let you know. Good luck. And hang in there.”

          “Yup. Bye.”

          I knew he meant well, but hang in there? My dad might die and mister always optimistic is telling me to hang in there? I cried more violently now, outside in front of the hospital, in the rain. Of course that’s how Peter would react. He never understands me. He never worries about me. He doesn’t care about me. My thoughts just became more and more irrational until I couldn’t handle it anymore. I relaxed for a moment, too tired to go on with my emotional tirade. I made another phone call, this time to my Uncle George.

          “Hello?”

          “Hi, It’s Michelle. Where are you?”

          He answered me but I didn’t listen.

          “My dad’s in the hospital. I think he had a stroke or something. He’s unconscious.”

          “Where are you, Sturdy?”

          “Yeah.”

          There was a slight pause. “Do you want me to come down?”

          I sniffed, and tears started building up again. “Yes, please.”

          “Ok, I’ll be there in a little while.”

          “Ok bye.”

          Feeling slightly better, I went back inside the hospital. Marie was there with my mother and aunt, which would have surprised me if I’d had the presence of mind to give it any thought. We drank coffee, and they made idle small talk while I sat in silence. Then a doctor came in.

          “Mrs. Lussier?”

          “Yes?” My mother answered.

          “Would you like a priest to come in?”

          “What!” My mother, Marie, and I said in unison. Terror was apparent on their faces, and I felt as if my lungs had just collapsed.

          “No, no,” Aunt Joanne said. “He’s not talking about last rites.”

          The doctor looked embarrassed at making us worry. “Oh, no! I’m sorry. The priest can come in to pray for recovery, too. It’s perfectly normal.”

          My mother and I looked at each other. “My husband’s not really very religious,” she said.

          I shrugged. “I don’t know.”

          “It’s up to you,” the doctor said.

          “I think you should,” Marie said. “Maybe it’ll help.”

          The four of us went into the room where my father was laying on a bed with all kinds of tubes in him. The priest came in, and we all held hands as he said a prayer. I tried to concentrate on the prayer but I just couldn’t. Especially when I heard my cell phone ring from across the hall. Twice. I wondered if my father could hear the priest. I hoped he didn’t think he was being read his last rites. The thought of him thinking he was dying, and maybe being scared about it was too much for me. When the prayer was over Marie told the priest what a good, caring man my father was. Then she asked if he would say a prayer for my mother and I. He put his hands on our heads and said another prayer. Inside I was praying a different kind of prayer. A prayer for God to let me hold on to my sanity, because I felt it slowly slipping away with every breath I took.

          When the priest was done I grabbed my purse from the waiting room and went back outside to see who called my cell phone earlier. It was Peter. He left a message, but try as I might I just could not remember how to retrieve my messages. My head was too cloudy. So I just called him back.

          “Any word on your dad yet?” He asked.

          “They’re still not sure yet. But a priest prayed for him. Not the prayer for when you’re dying but just a prayer for recovery.”

          “Well, that’s good. I talked to Loren and we’re all set for tonight and tomorrow. You don’t have to worry about a thing. Well…” Peter rethought that. “You don’t have to worry about doing camera.”

          “Ok…thanks.”

          “Michelle,” Peter said. “Everything is going to be okay.”

          “I hope so. I really, really hope so.”

          “Oh, and, by the way, this probably doesn’t mean much right now…but happy birthday.”

          I gasped. I had totally forgotten it was my birthday. I laughed bitterly. “Yeah. Thanks.”

          When I hung up with Peter I tried to call my uncle again but there was no answer. I just could not go back to that waiting room. I wanted my uncle to hurry up. I felt as though Marie, Aunt Joanne…even my mother…didn’t understand how I was feeling, as crazy as that sounds. Part of me needed people…people like my uncle, or Peter…but part of me wanted everyone to just stay away from me.

          The next few hours, even after my uncle finally showed up, were blurry at best. Every time a doctor came in to try to explain something to us I just got more and more confused. I was tired in a way that transcended just a lack of sleep. And every time I thought I couldn’t cry anymore I would surprise myself. When my father was sent up to intensive care we were told to go wait in the waiting room up there. I lay down on the couch, not really trying to sleep but it seemed like an appropriate thing to do. Suddenly I didn’t feel twenty-five anymore. I felt five.

          “You’re going to get Joey later?” I asked my uncle who was sitting in a chair across from the couch where I was laying.

          “Yeah…he’s going to help me with some work I have to do. I’ll bring him over to your house later when I come back.”

          Without even thinking about it, suddenly I blurted out, “Where’s Earl? Do you know where he is?”

          “Yeah, he’s living down in Warwick with Denise. Why?”

          “Can you find him? Can you get him?”

          “Yeah, I’ll go see if he’s around.”

          “Good. Because I need them. Bring Joey over tonight, ok? And Earl. Find Earl.” I started to sniffle again, which built up into an incoherent bawling. “I need Joey. I need Earl! I need Earl!”

          At this point I was practically screaming, and Marie, Aunt Joanne and Uncle George sadly looked on as my mother got up from her seat and knelt down in front of the couch where I was laying. She hugged me and stroked my hair, saying everything was going to be all right, while I just kept crying and saying “I need Earl” until the words didn’t make sense anymore.

          Later on that afternoon, perhaps in an effort to keep busy after the hospital staff effectively kicked us out and told us to get some rest, my mother and I picked up the flowers I’d ordered from the florist a day earlier and brought them to the Heaven’s Gate cemetery in East Providence where my former teacher and friend, Vic Genest, had been buried one year earlier. While my mother sat in the car, I stood by the still unmarked grave, holding the plastic flower base, feeling absolutely horrible. I apologized profusely to Mr. Genest for screaming at him in my mind that morning. Maybe it was my imagination, but I felt a mental block of sorts, almost like he was refusing to communicate with me, refusing to accept my apology. I left the cemetery feeling no better than I did when I got there.

          Once we got home, silence dominated the apartment. I sat at the kitchen table for awhile while my mother began making spaghetti in anticipation of my uncle and cousins arriving later that night. I suddenly remembered that I was supposed to go out with my friend Dena that evening after the football game, so I headed into my bedroom to call her cell phone to leave a message. Surprisingly, she answered the phone.

          “Dena?” I asked, stunned. “Where are you?”

          “On the train,” she answered. “What’s wrong? You sound like you’ve been crying.”

          “That’s because I have. I don’t think I can go out with you tonight.”

          “What happened?” she asked.

          “My dad is in the hospital.”

          “Why?” she asked, sounding alarmed.

          “I don’t know.” I suddenly felt very drained. “It might’ve been a heart attack, or a stroke. He was unconscious. I don’t know what’s going to happen…”

          “Why didn’t you call me this morning?” Dena demanded.

          “Because you were at work. What could you have done?”

          “I would’ve left,” she said. “My train should be getting to the station in about a half an hour. I have to go to the store, then I will be at your house.”

          Her take-charge tone was comforting. I didn’t fight it. “Ok,” I said.

          Before Dena arrived from the train station, Uncle George showed up with Joey and Earl. It was nice seeing Joey, but truthfully, I’d never been so happy to see anyone in my life as I was to see Earl that day. He had a bag, and was prepared to stay the weekend, much to my surprise.

          “You know Shell,” he said as he followed me down the hall to my bedroom, “I was supposed to work this weekend, but I left.”

          I looked at him, shocked. Not so much because he’d left his job, but because I didn’t know he had one in the first place. “Why?” I asked.

          “Because you needed me. When Uncle George and Joey showed up at Aunt Denise’s house, all Joey had to say to me was ‘Shelly needs you’, and I threw some stuff in a bag and was in Uncle G’s car before anyone knew what happened.” Earl spoke with such sincerity and such caring that it nearly brought me to tears for the umpteenth time that day.

          I just looked at him, and said the only thing I could say. “I love you.”

          “I love you too, Shell,” he said.

          When Dena’s blue Explorer pulled into the driveway a short time later, Earl and I went outside to greet her. She jumped out of the drivers seat and pulled out a hat made of brightly colored balloons behind her.

          “What the hell is that?” I asked, seriously wondering if something was wrong with her.

          “It’s for you,” she said as she put it on my head. She then proceeded to take a bouquet of flowers and a birthday cake out from the passenger seat. “I figured you guys didn’t think to get a cake or anything. Happy Birthday!”

          I was close to tears again. “Oh Dena!” I tried to hug her but it was difficult since she was still holding the cake and flowers. Earl quickly took them from her and I threw my arms around her, grateful that I had such a wonderful friend.

          We stayed outside, birthday paraphernalia and all, chatting. It had been some time since Dena and Earl, childhood sweethearts, had seen each other, and the nostalgic feel of it made me forget how upset I was, at least momentarily. But when the car pulled up with my father’s sister – Earl’s mother – in the passenger seat, I knew by the look on her face that my vacation from tears wouldn’t last much longer.

          Auntie Chris didn’t get out of her husband’s car, they just pulled up beside me in the driveway so she could talk to me. Earl’s two-year-old daughter Abbie was in the back seat. While Earl talked to Abbie through the window on the other side, I talked to my sobbing aunt. I’m not sure why, but her emotional state surprised me. Maybe it was because I’d rarely seen anyone from the Lussier side of the family show emotion. As I tried to comfort her, it occurred to me that maybe it was a blessing in disguise. After all, as long as I was trying to get her to stop crying, I didn’t have time to cry myself.

          After dinner, Uncle George and Joey left to finish some work they were doing, and Dena and Earl and I drove around for a while. I know Dena was trying to distract me, but even a trip to Burger King to see my friend Mike wasn’t enough to do the trick. It wasn’t until we got back to the house, armed with frozen orange mudslide mix, that I was able to let go of the incessant pounding in my brain.

         
Back to Fiction