A/N: BJ belongs to people other than me. No copyright infringement intended.
Chapter 4
His head snaps up like he has been slapped. In an instant, his mind swirls around all the implications of the nurse's words. Christie has been here. Watching him. Watching him stumble out of the bathroom. Watching him struggle into bed. To find a drink of water. He wants to disappear. He wants to evaporate. He wants to be hidden in the same darkness that is hiding everything around him. He wishes she wasn't here. How could she not say something? How could she watch him in silence? He realizes how surprised he is that she has come at all. He thinks she would be within her rights to let him rot in this hospital. He wants to pretend everything is fine and put on a brave face, but he imagines she can plainly see that nothing is fine. Everything is completely screwed.
He holds his breath for a second, listening to her breathing, rapid and shallow beside him. How can she sit there and say nothing? He debates what to do. He turns his head toward her and decides to go with his gut, which is still flip-flopping with nausea, now made worse by the knowledge that his wife has been seated beside him, soundlessly bearing witness to his actions for several minutes.
"Christie?"
He hears her take a steadying breath. Her voice sounds tight as she speaks. Like there isn't any room for another drop of emotion in it.
"Hi Jimmie." She is close, but he can't say how close. He fights the urge to reach out and find her. To ground the disembodied voice that is hovering to his right.
"How long have you been here?" he asks, venturing to reveal just how stunned he is to learn that she is sitting right beside him.
"Just since you were in the washroom."
He brings a hand to his face and swipes at the tears he had forgotten there. He is at a loss.
"Oh."
He lets his hand crawl out from his side, searching for the bedrail. He needs something solid to hold onto. He feels like he is floating in space, but that the stars have disappeared. He needs something to grip so that he knows the world around him still exists. He needs to feel it, because then he'll know that this is real. His fingers hover in the air, searching, for a few moments before they strike the metal again. He wraps them around the bar tightly, wondering obsessively if she was watching his face or his hand, lost in the air between them.
"I can't see, Chris," he blurts, tears stinging his eyes again. He hears Christie's breath catch. The words sound jagged coming off his lips. He wonders how it is that he is sitting here in the darkness, speaking these words to the wife who was leaving. His head jerks to the left as he hears the door to the room again. He listens carefully, wondering if the nurse left or if someone else came in. He doesn't dare to ask. He feels heat rising in his face as he flushes from embarrassment at flinching in front of his wife. He is supposed to be strong. Brave.
"I know Jimmy. The doctors told me."
"When?" He is fighting away the tears, praying that they don't fall again.
"I ran into Dr. Sims at the desk when I came in just now. He said he had some test results for us."
Us?
"I'm sorry, Christie. I don't deserve you being here right now." His voice is heavy with the contrition, which though sincere, feels awkward and trite to him.
"You're right." Her voice is like a sheet of ice. He wishes she would lay a hand on him in spite of it. He's worried he is just imagining her.
He doesn't have a chance to reply to her. The door opens again. There are footsteps moving toward him. It sounds like there is more than one person coming in. He shifts nervously, waiting for someone to say what is happening. Wishing he knew how he was supposed to address unseen people.
"Mr. Dunbar, it's Dr. Sims here. I've brought along Dr. Wainright as well."
"How do you do, Mr. Dunbar?" A soft female voice comes from his left. He starts slightly as someone reaches over him and grasps his right hand, which was still wrapped around the bedrail, and shakes it firmly. He feels himself flush at missing the obvious gesture.
He says nothing in reply. He turns his face towards the sound of the two doctors' feet shifting on the tiles. He fights the urge to cover his ears as he hears a heavy chair dragging across the tiles towards the bed. He hears the table being pushed away from beside him. He wonders absently if they will put it back.
He hears a slight grunt from the male physician as he seats himself. His voice comes from immediately beside Jim now. He turns his head further towards the sound, feeling pain tugging at the base of his skull as he cranes his neck to the left.
He brings a hand up and rubs at his neck, waiting for them to speak.
"Mr. Dunbar, I'm afraid I have bad news."
The man's voice is coming to him from a great distance. He feels a cool hand take his right one now, a digit stroking his palm. His addled mind wonders who would be holding his hand.
"The MRI showed significant micro bleeds…." The voice is tinny, muffled, almost annoying. He settles his head into the pillow. His eyes close. He needs to sleep.
"The evoked potential test showed no response in either eye. I'm afraid your optic nerves….. irreparably damaged…" Who is that speaking to him? He wonders how someone can say all those words with so little emotion. His head throbs intensely.
Someone is shaking his shoulder. He flicks the hand away reflexively.
"Mr. Dunbar? Did you hear me?" It is the doctor's voice again.
Jim opens his eyes. For the third time today, he runs his fingers over them, checking that they are open. Panic bubbles up within him again. He notices as if for the first time that someone is squeezing his right hand. He pulls it loose and claws at his eyes again.
"I can't see," he mutters, puzzled again by what is happening.
"Mr. Dunbar, you are blind." The words ring in his head like a siren. He jerks his face toward the sound of the siren.
"Blind?" he repeats, feeling like his mouth is full of cotton.
"Yes. I'm afraid there is very little chance that you will recover any vision." His words are deafening.
"Mr. Dunbar?" He is speaking softly now, gently. "Dr. Wainright here is our clinical psychologist. Would you like some time to speak with her?"
He shakes his head slightly, numbly.
"I'm available if you change your mind." A female voice speaks unexpectedly from near the other doctor. He has forgotten she is there.
"Get the hell out of here," he whispers. His voice sounds like a scream inside his head.
"Jimmie," a scolding voice comes from his right. He turns his head slowly in that direction, puzzling over what Christie is doing at the hospital with him. He hears footsteps moving away from the bed. Swish. Click. They are gone. He hears his breath rasping from between parched lips. He searches fruitlessly in front of him, willing himself to see if she is still seated before him. If she is, she is holding her breath again.
He pushes himself up in bed, groaning against the pain that shoots through his skull. He reaches out with his left hand, fingers gesturing meaninglessly in the air as he tries to find the table. The cup. He moves his arm right and left. Suddenly he hears movement on his right. She is still there. She comes around the bed. He hears the table moving again. He falls back into bed. His hand settles in his lap.
"Here," she says softly, incapable of understanding that the word has become meaningless for him. He turns his head towards her and stares mutely ahead. He can tell she is trembling, from her ragged breathing. She touches his hand tentatively with her own. He shivers at the unexpected contact. She lifts his hand and places the cup in it. "Have some water," she whispers. He takes a sip and then holds the cup out in front of him. It feels like it weighs a thousand pounds at that moment. He prays silently that she will take it before he drops it on his lap.
He lies back in the bed. He closes his eyes. He can hear her breathing near him. She is on his left.
"Christie?"
"I'm here," she whispers, strain coming through in her voice. He doesn't hear her move toward him. When she doesn't speak, it is like she doesn't exist. He feels naked and exposed. Knowing she is standing there, but making no effort to touch him, he wonders if she is trying to punish him.
"Please, Christie," he rasps.
In a moment he feels the bed shudder and clang as she lowers the bed rail. The mattress shifts slightly as she settles on the edge beside him. He feels her pressed up against his left thigh. Her hair tickles the side of his face as she takes him in a strong embrace. He brings his arms around her and clings tightly to her small frame. He is careening in the darkness. Sobs burst forth from him, and his body shakes painfully as the magnitude of what has happened begins to crystallize. He clutches her like the last vestige of the light, praying that she won't disappear too.
