Chapter 25
March 5, 2024
The clock on the wall reads nine twenty-one. It's been mere minutes since Dr. Hall administered the codeine, and it is already beginning to wear off.
Not long after, your fever returns.
Nurses place cool, wet towels on top of your body and bags of ice on your forehead. You are reminded of Jane's explanation, that the purpose of this phenomenon is to render your body an unsuitable environment for whatever disease is ravaging it. You only hope that it does not kill you in the process.
You are in and out of consciousness throughout the night. When you sleep, you dream about leaving the hospital. You imagine yourself rising from your bed and walking out of the room. Not that anyone is actively preventing you from doing so. No one is standing guard. There is no cage, no bars, nor any chains holding you in place. You are simply imprisoned by your own frailty, an obstacle you are currently powerless to overcome.
At times, your body is so hot that your eyeballs feel like molten orbs. And they sear against the tender skin of your eyelids, whenever you dare close them. You are drenched, both with moisture from the towels and from your own sweat. For once, you can actually smell your own perspiration. Which you suspect means that other people can as well. The very notion only magnifies your existing discomfort.
Your pain comes in cycles, during which it increases steadily until it becomes intolerable. Each time, Erik haggles with Dr. Patel, persuades her to increase the dosage or alter the method of delivery. And the treatment is effective for a while, until it isn't, and the cycle begins again.
Erik seems different. He's more aggressive than you remember, and maybe even slightly devious. You wonder whether you corrupted him, somehow. Perhaps, in the process of healing him, you tainted his spirit. Then again, you may simply be imagining things. After all, whenever he turns to you, his expression is bereft of malice and he offers only calm reassurances.
You're speaking now, apparently. Or at least, that's what it feels like. You're making sounds, though you're not really sure just how much sense you're actually making. You're saying yes and no, mostly. Regardless, Erik carries on a continuous one-sided conversation, one in which he actively engages with you while demanding no substantial response.
Things are now incredibly important to you that you never bothered considering before, really trivial things. Such as the condition of your pillow, and whether it is soft or firm enough, or whether its surface is smooth or rough. You never before noticed the texture of your blanket, or the lumps that form when it gathers in the wrong places. And you now have renewed appreciation for freedom of movement. Especially since you cannot fully extend your arms without smacking them into the bedrails or shift your body without disrupting some tube or wire.
Right now, all you know is either being asleep or being awake. Although awake might be a generous description for the latter. Because being awake simply means having your eyes open, looking around for Erik, watching strangers come and go from your room, and coping with whatever current state of physical discomfort you happen to be in.
As the sun rises, your fever finally abates. Despite the persistent pain, you feel weak and drained. You know not what sort of vulturous creatures inhabit this realm. But were you recumbent outdoors, you are certain that they would waste no time circling overhead. They would pick freely at your helpless body, devouring your flesh, until there was nothing left but bones.
A pair of female nurses arrive. One is holding a plastic basin and rags, and the other a fresh gown and linens. Erik exchanges a few words with them, before exiting the room. You are only briefly unclothed, during which time one of them wipes your face and body with a wet rag. She is respectable enough, avoiding eye contact as she quickly pats you down with a towel. While she works, the other nurse removes your soiled bedclothes and replaces them. They both move so swiftly that it's clear they have performed this routine thousands of times before. And it is so nice to feel clean and dry again.
Yet another nurse brings you a tray. Breakfast, perhaps? You decline the food, along with cups of ice chips that she suggests. You hear her telling Erik that you need to eat something. But you fear that consuming anything at all may lead to retching, and you're already suffering enough as it is.
Whatever concoction they gave you most recently is beginning to wear off. You can feel the familiar burning ache returning. And as much as it is the same, it is always just a little bit different. Like a warrior, wishing to improve itself, it seeks out new ways to wound its foe. And you no longer have the strength to fend it off, nor the fortitude to conceal your discomfort. Waves of shame wash over you, as you release an audible groan.
Erik argues with Dr. Patel out in the hallway. You can tell by his body language that his voice is raised, though his words are drowned out by the hospital's ambient noise.
Suddenly, Erik rushes back into the room. Dr. Patel follows after him.
"I've done the math," he barks. "If you give him a bolus of one-hundred milligrams..."
"There would be an enormous risk of respiratory distress," she tells him, calmly.
"So, because he might have difficulty breathing..."
"He could stop breathing altogether," she corrects.
"Which you can fix," Erik points out.
"I prefer to avoid intubation..."
"So, it's about your preference?"
Dr. Patel sighs. She addresses you, directly.
"I realize that you are continuing to experience pain," she says. "We are doing our best to treat it..."
"Are you, though?" Erik gibes.
"...without posing additional risks to your health," she finishes.
She glances at Erik and then back at you. She is waiting for you to say something, though you have no idea what. You are in no state to engage in an academic discussion.
"What your father is proposing is that we give you a bolus of 100 milligrams of morphine and then, instead of titrating, we follow it up, hourly, with smaller boli of 20 milligrams. This would be an unprecedented dose of opiate medication. Half as much would be sufficient to kill a healthy adult human being."
You are not a human being. But it stands to reason that anything so utterly toxic to a Midgardian might have at least a minor adverse effect on you.
You clear your throat. You want to put together a whole sentence, if you can.
"Kill them...how?"
"In cases of opiate overdose, the most common cause of death is respiratory failure. Your breathing would be suppressed, and eventually stop."
"Luckily, he's in a hospital," Erik snipes.
"Yes," she concurs. "He is in a hospital."
She sighs before adding, "He would have to consent to the treatment. And he would have to consent to any life saving measures that might be taken as a result of said treatment."
Erik studies you, intently. He's waiting to see whether you understand.
"Life saving," you repeat, softly. "What...does that mean?"
"When you breathe," Dr. Patel clarifies, "you take in oxygen. Like a human, your oxygen saturation needs to stay above 96%. It can drop to 90, temporarily, without any major repercussions. But if it falls below 88 percent, there is a significant risk of brain damage and death."
You peek at Erik, briefly.
"But he said...you could fix it?"
"When a patient's blood oxygen falls below a certain level, we take measures to deliver extra oxygen. In some cases, this might mean inserting a tube in your trachea and utilizing a ventilator. And there are a whole separate set of risks to that procedure as well."
"Awake?" you ask.
"It's not likely that you'd still be conscious at that point. But if you were, we would utilize a sedative before inserting the tube. There would be some...minor discomfort."
You don't want to be in pain anymore. But to simply numb yourself into a state of hibernation is cowardly.
Dr. Patel must read your trepidation.
"I have my reservations, of course. Mostly because we've never given this much morphine to a patient. We have no idea what will happen. I want you to be fully informed of the risks. This is not an easy decision. And not one that I, nor anyone else, should make for you."
Even so, you look at Erik. You know his position on the matter. But you also recall how he blatantly refused to take medication that was designed to ease his own suffering. And it posed no real risk, other than robbing him of his senses.
Eerily, he seems to know what you are thinking.
"I know," he says, chuckling. "I'm a hypocrite. I was stubborn...and I was wrong. It's alright to take medicine. It's alright to not want to be in pain."
It's a peculiar thing to witness. Not only is Erik openly admitting to having erred, he appears to be amused by his own folly. He gains nothing by making such a confession. The only benefit goes to you.
It is not in your nature to trust other people, certainly not with your life. But you know that Erik would never intentionally cause you harm. And if he is offering you permission to escape your suffering, you'd be a fool not to accept.
"Yes," you finally say, "alright."
Dr. Patel nods.
"If you can hang on just a little longer, there will be some paperwork for you to sign...consent forms. I will expedite the process as much as I can. We will proceed within the hour."
Nothing in a hospital happens as quickly as promised, however. It takes another 30 minutes for the hospital to draw up the necessary paperwork for you to sign. You can barely make out the writing on it. Thankfully, all the areas that require your signature are highlighted in yellow. You scribble your name, hastily.
An additional forty-five minutes passes before Dr. Patel finally brings the medication. She has with her four other people, one of whom is pushing a large machine. They ogle you, curiously.
"This is our code team," Dr. Patel explains. "It's just a precaution."
The other four people stand by, while Dr. Patel administers the morphine. She pushes the plunger on the syringe, transferring the medication into the port that is attached to your shoulder. At first, you don't feel anything. Then, you detect a liquid heat, somewhere deep in your gut. It spreads quickly, filling your torso, your arms and legs. There's an unpleasant, metallic taste in your mouth. You scan the room for Erik but you can't see anything. The bodies of the people around you have been reduced to dark blobs.
You are afforded little time to ruminate. There is nothing gradual about your journey to unconsciousness. It hits you rather suddenly. One second you are awake. The next you are not.
This time, you do not dream. There is no deeper awareness of what is taking place around you. You feel absolutely nothing.
When you open your eyes again, you find Erik sitting in the chair beside your bed. You can see through the window in the corner of the room that it is morning again. The clock reads seven forty-three. You slept for an entire day.
"You look better," Erik notes.
Your lips and tongue are stuck together. You lick them several times, but your mouth simply refuses to moisten itself.
"Are you thirsty?" he asks.
You nod.
Erik takes a pitcher and pours some water into a plastic cup. He hand the cup to you. But when you reach for it, you are startled to feel your hands trembling. You try several times to get your hands around the cup. You cannot stop your hands from shaking. You quickly become frustrated and let them fall into your lap.
Erik fetches a plastic straw, which he places into the cup. Then, he guides the straw to your lips. It is absolutely ridiculous to require help for something so mundane. But any reservations you might have had are set aside in favor of quenching your thirst.
Though your tongue is no longer dry, it still feels heavy in your mouth. You swallow the water down, slowly, so you do not choke.
"It's just the morphine," he explains. "It does a real number on the fine motor skills."
Even though you are now awake, you are incredibly drowsy. Everything sounds strange, muted and far away. Your vision is altered. The lights on the ceiling and in the hallway are each surrounded by a prism of colors. But this odd state is certainly worth enduring. For previously, when you awoke, you were still in some form of pain. Right now you feel absolutely no pain at all. Whatever it is they're doing is working.
"Dr. Patel says you're tolerating it well," Erik provides. "Your oxygen levels did drop slightly, but they've given you a cannula."
He gestures to your face. You realize that there is a tube affixed to it, resting just underneath your nose. You reach for it, clumsily, and it falls from its place and comes to rest on your chin.
"Here, let me," Erik offers. He retrieves the thin tube and gently returns it to your nose.
You blink at him, tiredly. It is difficult to think. You have things you would like to say, but you lack the will to verbalize them. Your cannot hold onto your thoughts. So, you close your eyes again. And before you know it, you are asleep.
By the end of the following day, Dr. Patel begins to wean you off of the morphine. You are apprehensive, at first. But when she decreases the hourly dosages to 15 milligrams, and even to 10 milligrams, your pain remains at bay. While you continue to experience extreme drowsiness and general haziness, you are able to think a little more clearly, and even stay awake for a few hours at a time. Nurses begin removing some of those dreadful tubes and wires. Some, you discover, were more unfortunately placed than others.
Even so, for the first time since you arrived at the hospital, you are hopeful that this dreadful ordeal is nearing its end.
When Steve Rogers enters the room, he first greets Erik and then turns his attention to you.
"I guess you're on the mend," he says.
"I feel fantastic," you say. It's not a lie. Relatively speaking, at least, you feel better than you've felt in a long time.
"Well, that's good," Steve remarks.
"I can't talk, though," you offer, blankly.
He frowns at you.
"You're talking right now," he points out.
"Am I?"
"Yes, I can hear you."
"How about now?"
"Yes."
Steve's gapes at you. It's evident from his expression that he thinks you've lost your mind.
"Is he okay?" he whispers to Erik.
Erik chuckles.
"Oh, he's fine. He was getting an obscene dose of intravenous morphine. Like— enough to kill a horse. Or two horses. They're weaning him off now."
"Oh," Steve replies, knowingly.
"Don't talk about me," you scold, pointing a finger at Erik. "Don't talk about me like I'm not even here. I'm not a child."
You are trying very hard to sound annoyed. Except that you're not. You don't really care much about anything, at the moment. And it's lovely. You half expect Erik to accuse you of disrespect. But he just beams at you, as though your rudeness were somehow endearing.
You tilt your head back and stretch out your limbs, now that you are able to do so.
"Hey," you say to Steve.
"Hey," he returns, awkwardly.
He takes a few steps towards your bed. When he is close enough, you reach out and clumsily slug his arm.
"Hey," you say again.
"Hey," he repeats.
"You know what we should do?" you ask.
"Uh...what?"
"We should— we should— we should— you know, with the um— bats."
He shakes his head, confused.
"You— you want to play baseball?"
You shrug.
"Yes— sure. Why not?"
"We should probably wait until you're better."
"Better than what?"
He bites his lip, as though he is trying not to smile.
"I...mean, we should wait until you get out of the hospital."
You laugh to yourself. Somehow you don't remember Steve being this funny. In fact, you recall accusing him of having no sense of humor whatsoever. Of course, that was immediately after you openly mocked his beliefs. Which, in hindsight, was rather ill-mannered. Steve is such a kind person, too. Sure, he's self-righteous and maybe a little cloying at times. But he's polite. And he's punctual. In fact, sometimes he's even early. And he's always well groomed. Which is more than you can say for most Midgardians.
"I am dreadfully sorry," you announce.
He pauses, clearly startled by your declaration.
"Sorry for what?"
"I just..."
You are overcome by a need to yawn. Your words are coming out slurred and sloppy. Some part of you knows that you sound utterly ridiculous. But you are so happy to finally not be in pain that you don't care.
"Just what?"
You yawn once more before responding.
"You just wanted to…" you wave your hand around, to simulate hitting a ball with a bat. You more resemble someone swatting at a fly.
He puts his hands on his hips.
"Oh, are we playing Charades? I used to be really good at this. Let me see...is it a person, place or thing?"
You sit up and endeavor to speak more clearly.
"I was very inconsiderate."
"When?"
"Um…the other day…when we went...to the thing…"
You frown at your inability to produce the appropriate words. Why is it so hard to think and talk?
"Oh, that. " Steve tosses his hand, nonchalantly. "I forgive you."
"You are a very thoughtful person," you reply.
He is, once again, caught off guard.
"That's...kind of you to say."
"I'm sure you hear that all the time."
He scrunches his lips together.
"Not as often as you would think."
"And I behaved like such an ass..."
"It's really not a big deal."
You let out an enormous sigh.
"Everyone here says that!"
He looks at Erik and then back at you.
"Says what?"
"It's not a big deal. What does that even mean? Why isn't anything a big deal? Something has to be a big deal. Otherwise the sentiment is meaningless."
"Well...this isn't a big deal," he promises.
You yawn for what feels like the hundredth time. Your eyes water. You are not accustomed to this constant fatigue. Your body clearly desires sleep, and yet, you find that you are struggling against it.
"Okay," Erik interjects, clapping his hands together, "you need to get some rest."
While you know that he is correct, you detest any reminder of your physical weaknesses.
"I will certainly consider it."
"It wasn't a suggestion," he tells you, firmly.
You feel good for the first time in a long time. You don't want to sleep through it. You hope that if you change the subject, he will drop the matter.
"I already took a nap this morning."
"You should probably take another."
"I'm talking to Steve," you pout. "Steve is here...look."
He leans in close and lowers his voice a bit.
"I know you feel great right now...but you're still very sick."
You grin, stupidly.
"Why are we whispering?" you ask.
Erik clears his throat and proceeds to speak at normal volume.
"Steve and I are going to grab some lunch in the cafeteria, and you're going to lie back down and take a nap."
"Oh, is that right?"
"Yes, that's right."
You study his face, waiting for him to smile or to give some indication that he is speaking in jest. But he looks very serious. You play with the edge of the blanket. You notice the color, a dingy shade of green. It is not unlike the blankets Erik used while he was a patient. Were you more coherent, you would probably spend some time pondering the deeper irony of you situation. But you're not.
"I would rather you didn't go," you declare. "Because...I don't want to be alone."
It takes you a second to realize that you spoke those words, not only out loud but loudly. Steve pinches his lips together in an attempt to conceal his reaction.
"I'm not going far," Erik assures you. "I'll only be on another floor of the hospital. I'll be back in less than an hour."
Steve exits the room and waits in the hallway. Erik pulls your blanket up, so that it covers your chest.
You groan when Erik begins shutting off the lights and drawing the shades.
"It's barely afternoon," you whine.
"Are you comfortable?" he asks, ignoring your complaint.
"Yeah," you mutter.
You wish that he wasn't leaving but you know that he needs to eat.
You close your eyes. You feel him touch your head. A moment later, you hear his footsteps as he leaves the room. With all distractions eliminated, it does not take you long to fall asleep.
When you wake up again, you note that several hours have passed. But Erik is not in the room. You have only seconds to contemplate his absence, thankfully. A nurse enters.
"Your dad said he'd be right back," she supplies. She examines you, briefly. Then, she accesses the computer. While she types at the keyboard, she inquires whether you'd like anything to eat.
You're not hungry, just yet. Though, you probably should be. You recall Erik mentioning that the morphine might suppress your appetite.
"We need to start getting some real calories in you," she says. "I'm going to bring you some juice to start. Maybe you can try some soup later on this evening."
You nod. You don't suppose there would be any harm in juice.
"Do you want apple, orange, or cranberry?"
You shrug. All Midgardian juice is heavily sweetened. So much so that you can scarcely differentiate between them. They all taste about the same.
"It doesn't matter."
She continues to type at the keyboard.
You peer down at the bracelet that is on your wrist. For the first time since it was placed there, you make a genuine attempt to read what is printed on it. Your vision must be returning to normal, because you are able to make out the words.
The bracelet bears your name. Or at least your last name, with your first initial. Next to that are the letters NH, a distinction which also appears on your government issued identification. Not long after it was issued, a quick Google search revealed that the initials stood for non-human.
Underneath your name it reads SEX: M, which you assume means male. After that there are several letters and a series of numbers that are unfamiliar to you. DOB: 9-12-1988. It looks like a date. D probably stands for date. O probably stands for of. But what about B?
"What is D-O-B?" you ask the nurse.
"Date of birth," she replies, absently.
"Date of birth," you repeat. You've heard that phrase before, somewhere. Haven't you? "Whose?"
She turns to you.
"Are you kidding?"
"Why would I be kidding?"
She approaches your bed and pats you on the shoulder.
"It's your date of birth, honey. Who else's would it be?"
"Right."
"I'll be back with your juice," she says, before leaving the room.
You study the bracelet again. So, your initial suspicion was correct. The number with slashes is a date. You quickly do the math. If you were born in the ninth month of the year 1988 you would be 35 years old now.
Except that it makes no sense why the hospital would believe you were only 35 years old. Even the identification card that you used to operate your automobile lists no specific biological age. It describes you only as a refugee with Asgard as your planet of origin. While that is technically incorrect, you never saw any point in amending it. It makes no difference to the people of Earth whether you are from Asgard or Jotunheim, since they have little knowledge of either realm. But for some reason, you find the notion that you have only existed for thirty-five years...troublesome.
Erik enters the room, smiling.
You don't give him a chance to speak.
"What is this?" you demand.
You raise your wrist and point to the bracelet with your other hand.
"It's just for security purposes," he explains. "So, the doctor can keep track of who you are. All the patients wear them."
"It says here that my date of birth is in the year one-nine-eight-eight."
"Does it?"
"That was only thirty-five years ago."
He scratches his head. There's an immediate change in his demeanor. He is hiding something.
"Oh."
"Oh?"
He sits down. He doesn't respond right away. He is clearly stalling.
"When I was originally diagnosed, I knew that a time would come that I would no longer be able to make decisions for myself. I procrastinated for as long as I could. But every time I spilled something or had an accident...I felt like a burden to you."
"You weren't."
"Still...you had no obligation to take on such a tremendous responsibility."
"It was no problem," you lie.
Of course, it was a problem. It was a lot of problems. But that doesn't mean you regret doing it. And it certainly isn't something he should feel guilty about.
He smiles, sadly.
"No, you never seemed to mind."
You point, once again, to the bracelet.
"What does that have to do with this?"
"I had Jane take me to see a lawyer. He...fabricated some legal documents for me."
"For what purpose?"
"I had papers drawn up that showed you were born in Oslo in 1988, to a woman whose last name was Odinson, that she passed away shortly after, and that I adopted you and brought you to the United States."
When Jane told you that Erik filed legal paperwork, you assumed the information contained within it was factual. Knowing that Erik felt the need to lie about your life in order to justify calling you his son fills you with dread.
"I have identification that was issued to me by the government," you point out.
"That's right."
"It does not match the scenario you just described."
He runs a hand through his hair, nervously.
"No...I suppose it doesn't."
"Then why are these numbers on my bracelet?"
He shrugs.
"I gave that paperwork to Dr. Chen several years ago, when I started seeing him. You were unconscious when you were brought here. He provided the hospital with the paperwork he had on file...so that I would be allowed to make decisions for you, until you were able to make them for yourself."
"I understand that. What I do not understand is why you fabricated the paperwork in the first place."
"I...I'm not really sure what you're asking."
"I want to know why you would assert something that you knew could easily be refuted."
"I don't know, Loki. You hadn't been with me for very long when I found out that I was sick. I knew there was a possibility that I might become ill, one day. But I'd hoped we'd have more time together."
"More time? More time for what?"
"You'd already lost so much. It didn't feel right to bring you here and then just...abandon you."
You shake your head, confused.
"It wasn't your fault that you were dying."
"I know. I just...didn't want to leave you empty handed. I wanted to give you something, some kind of..."
He tilts his head, thoughtfully, as he searches for the right words.
"What?" you prompt, impatiently.
"I suppose it was my way of...adopting you."
Your mouth hangs open for a few seconds.
"But you didn't," you point out.
"What do you mean?"
You recall how Jane told you that Erik made a conscious choice to list you as his next of kin. Despite what you are being told, you are still not fully convinced that it wasn't merely done out of necessity.
Thus, you cannot help wondering whether it will be rendered void now that Erik is no longer ill. While you may have posed as his son for a time, there is no longer any practical reason for you to do so.
"You didn't adopt me. The person described in those documents doesn't exist. I wasn't born in 1988. I wasn't born in Norway. I wasn't even born on Earth. And I'm not thirty-five years old..."
"I realize that…"
"It's just an illusion...another elaborate tale. Another damn lie. Because who I really am is somehow...inadequate."
Erik is utterly perplexed.
"I certainly didn't mean for it to come across that way..."
"I am grateful for your hospitality, but I do not need your pity."
"It isn't pity..."
"Either way, I'm not some stray animal for you to house and feed in order to sooth your own conscience..."
You are out of breath from so much talking. You don't like being angry with Erik. It feels wrong. Everything feels wrong right now. You are weak and vulnerable, and unable to properly vent your frustrations.
You look down at the bracelet again. Something tells you that the date, 9-12-1988, is not just some random arrangement of numbers. Erik, like you, is a deliberate person. He does nothing arbitrarily or without some degree of forethought.
"September twelfth," you say.
"What about it?" Erik asks.
"Nine-twelve means September twelfth."
"That's right."
"Why that date?"
"What do you mean?"
"You could have picked any day. Why that one?"
"Loki," he warns, "some things are better off left alone."
"I want to know," you say. "I need to know."
He hesitates. He doesn't want to tell you. And you actually ponder robbing him of his will and forcing him to confess the truth.
But then, he mumbles his response.
"September 12th, 1988 is the day that Lars was born," he answers.
You suck in your breath. Part of you suspected. Hearing it said out loud is something else altogether.
"I'd like to be alone," you whisper, harshly.
"Loki..." he begins.
"Please get out," you snap.
You avoid Erik's gaze, because you know that your words are hurtful, and you don't want to see his wounded expression.
"Alright," he says, softly.
He lingers a moment, before slowly departing.
"Where's your dad?" the nurse asks, when she brings your juice.
"He's not my dad," you say, quietly.
"Oh."
She clearly has no idea what to say. She sets the juice down and leaves the room.